No real Wound the Victor's Triumph show'd,
But his lost Honours griev'd the watry God;
Yet ev'n that Loss the Willow's Leaves o'erspread,
And verdant Reeds, in Garlands, bind his Head.
The Death of Nessus the Centaur.
This Virgin too, thy Love O Nessus found,
To her alone you owe the fatal Wound.
As the strong Son of Jove his Bride conveys,
Where his Paternal Land their Bulwarks raise;
Where from her slopy Urn Evenus pours
Her rapid Current, swell'd by wintry Show'rs,
He came. The frequent Eddies whirl'd the Tide,
And the deep rolling Waves all pass deny'd.
As for himself, he stood unmov'd by Fears,
For now his Bridal Charge employ'd his Cares,
The strong limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd,
(For he the shallows of the Stream had try'd)
Swim thou Alcides, all thy Strength prepare,
On yonder Bank I'll lodge thy nuptial Care.
Th' Aonian Chief to Nessus trusts his Wife,
All pale, and trembling for her Heroe's Life:
Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce Lyon's Hyde,
The Leaden Quiver o'er his Shoulder ty'd,
(For cross the Stream his Bow and Club were cast)
Swift he plung'd in; These Billows shall be past,
He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide,
But stem'd the rapid Dangers of the Tide.
The Bank he reach'd; again the Bow he bears;
When, hark! his Bride's known Voice alarms his Ears.
Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries)
Vain is thy Trust in Flight, be timely wise:
Thou Monster double shap'd, my Right set free;
If thou no Rev'rence owe my Fame and me,
