Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/59

What tho', ally'd to Meleager's Fame,
I boast the Honours of a Sister's Name?
My Wrongs perhaps, now urge me to persue
Some desp'rate Deed, by which the World shall view
How far Revenge, and Woman's Rage can rise,
When weltring in her Blood the Harlot dies.
Thus various Passions rul'd by Turns her Breast,
She now resolves to send the fatal Vest,
Dy'd with Lernæan Gore, whose Pow'r might move
His Soul anew, and rouse declining Love.
Nor knew she what her sudden Rage bestows,
When she to Lychas trusts her future Woes;
With soft endearment she the Boy commands,
To bear the Garment to her Husband's Hands.
Th' unwitting Hero takes the Gift in haste,
And o'er his Shoulders Lerna's Poison cast,
As first the Fire with Frankincense he strows,
And utters to the God's his holy Vows;
And on the Marble Altar's polish'd Frame
Pours forth the grapy Stream; the rising Flame
Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous Juice,
Which taints his Blood, and all his Nerves bedews.
With wonted Fortitude he bore the smart,
And not a Groan confess'd his burning Heart.
At length his Patience was subdu'd by Pain,
He rends the sacred Altar from the Plain;
OEte's wide Forests eccho with his Cries:
Now to rip off the dreadful Robe he tries.
Where e'er he plucks the Vest, the Skin he tears,
The mangled Muscles, and huge Bones he bares,
(A ghastful Sight!) or raging with his Pain,
To rend the sticking Plague he tugs in vain.
As the red Iron hisses in the Flood,
So boils the Venom in his curdling Blood.
Now with the greedy Flame his Entrails glow,
And livid Sweats down all his Body flow;

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