Had I a hundred Tongues, a Wit so large
As could their hundred Offices discharge;
Had Phæbus all his Helicon bestow'd
In all the Streams inspiring all the God;
Those Tongues, that Wit, those Streams, that God in vain
Would offer to describe his Sisters Pain:
They beat their Breasts with many a bruizing Blow,
Till they turn livid, and corrupt the Snow.
The Corps they cherish, while the Corps remains,
And exercise, and rub with fruitless Pains;
And when to fun'ral Flames 'tis born away,
They kiss the Bed on which the Body lay:
And when those fun'ral Flames no longer burn,
(The Dust compos'd within a pious Urn)
Ev'n in that Urn their Brother they confess,
And hug it in their Arms, and to their Bosoms press.
His Tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the Ground,
Those living Monuments his Tomb surround:
Ev'n to that Name, inscrib'd, their Tears they pay,
Till Tears, and Kisses wear his Name away.
But Cynthia now had all her Fury spent,
Not with less Ruin than a Race content:
Excepting Gorgè, perish'd all the Seed,
And [1] her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed.
Satiate at last, no longer she persu'd
The weeping Sisters; but with Wings endu'd,
And horny Beaks, and sent to flit in Air;
Who yearly round the Tomb in feather'd Flocks repair.
The Transformation of the Naiads.
By Mr. Vernon.
Theseus mean while acquitting well his share
In the bold Chace confed'rate like a War,
- ↑ Dejanira.
