Himself a Saint, a Goddess was his Bride,
And all the Muses o'er his Acts preside.
The Story of Hippolytus.
By Mr. Catcott.
Advanc'd in Years he dy'd, one common Date,
His Reign concluded, and his Mortal State.
Their Tears Plebeians, and Patricians shed,
And pious Matrons wept their Monarch dead.
His mournful Wife, her Sorrows to bewail,
Withdrew from Rome, and sought th' Arician Vale.
Hid in thick Woods, she made incessant Moans,
Disturbing Cynthia's sacred Rites with Groans.
How oft the Nymphs, who rul'd the Wood and Lake,
Reprov'd her Tears, and Words of Comfort spake!
How oft (in vain) the Son of Theseus said,
Thy stormy Sorrows be with Patience laid;
Nor are thy Fortunes to be wept alone,
Weigh others Woes, and learn to bear thine own.
Be mine an Instance to asswage thy Grief:
Would mine were none!—yet mine may bring Relief.
You've heard, perhaps, in Conversation told,
What once befel Hippolytus of old;
To Death by Theseus' easie Faith betray'd,
And caught in Snares his wicked Step-dame laid:
The wondrous Tale your Credit scarce may claim,
Yet (strange to say) in me behold the same,
Whom lustful Phædra oft had press'd in vain,
With impious Joys, my Father's Bed to stain;
Till seiz'd with Fear, or by Revenge inspir'd,
She charg'd on me the Crimes herself desir'd.
Expell'd by Theseus, from his Home I fled
With Heaps of Curses on my guiltless Head.
