The Incantation backward she repeats,
Inverts her Rod, and what she did, defeats.
And now our Skin grows smooth, our Shape upright;
Our Arms stretch up, our cloven Feet unite.
With Tears our weeping Gen'ral we embrace;
Hang on his Neck, and melt upon his Face.
Twelve Silver Moons in Circe's Court we stay,
Whilst there they waste th' unwilling Hours away.
'Twas here I spy'd a Youth in Parian Stone;
His Head a Pecker bore; the Cause unknown
To Passengers. A Nymph of Circe's Train
The Myst'ry thus attempted to explain.
The Story of Picus and Canens.
Picus, who once th' Ausonian Sceptre held,
Could rein the Steed, and fit him for the Field.
So like he was to what you see, that still
We doubt if real, or the Sculptor's Skill.
The Graces in the finish'd Piece, you find,
Are but the Copy of his fairer Mind.
Four Lustres scarce the Royal Youth could name,
Till ev'ry Love-sick Nymph confess'd a Flame.
Oft for his Love the Mountain Dryads su'd,
And ev'ry Silver Sister of the Flood:
Those of Numicus, Albula, and those
Where Almo creeps, and hasty Nar o'erflows:
Where sedgy Anio glides through smiling Meads,
Where shady Farsar rustles in the Reeds:
And those that Love the Lakes, and Homage owe
To the chaste Goddess of the Silver Bow.
In vain each Nymph her brightest Charms put on,
His Heart no Sov'reign would obey but one.
She whom Venilia, on Mount Palatine,
To Janus bore, the fairest of her Line.
