Yet Kindred should thy lawless Lust deny;
Think not perfidious Wretch, from me to fly,
Tho wing'd with Horse's speed; Wounds shall persue;
Swift as his Words the fatal Arrow flew:
The Centaur's Back admits the Feather'd Wood,
And thro' his Breast the barbed Weapon stood;
Which when in Anguish, thro' the Flesh he tore
From both the Wounds gush'd forth the spumy Gore.
Mix'd with Lernæan Venom; this he took,
Nor dire Revenge his dying Breast forsook.
His Garment, in the reeking Purple dy'd,
To rouse Love's Passion, he presents the Bride.
The Death of Hercules.
Now a long interval of Time succeeds,
When the great Son of Jove's immortal Deeds,
And Stepdame's Hate had fill'd Earth's utmost round;
He from OEchalia, with new Lawrels crown'd,
In Triumph was return'd. He Rites prepares,
And to the King of Gods directs his Pray'rs;
When Fame (who Falshood cloaths in Truth's Disguise,
And swells her little Bulk with growing Lies)
Thy tender Ear, O Dejanira, mov'd,
That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd.
Her Love believes the Tale; the Truth She fears
Of his new Passion, and gives way to Tears.
The flowing Tears diffus'd her wretched Grief.
Why seek I thus, from streaming Eyes, Relief?
She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless Cares,
The Harlot will but triumph in thy Tears:
Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's Time;
My Bed not conscious of a Rival's Crime.
In Silence shall I mourn or loud complain?
Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain?
