Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/60

The crackling Nerves burnt up are burst in twain,
The lurking Venom melts his swimming Brain.
Then lifting both his Hands aloft, he cries,
Glut thy Revenge dread Empress of the Skies;
Sate with my Death the Rancour ot thy Heart,
Look down with Pleasure, and enjoy my Smart.
Or if e'er Pity mov'd a Hostile Breast,
(For here I stand thy Enemy profest)
Take hence this hateful Life, with Tortures torn,
Inur'd to Trouble, and to Labours born.
Death is the Gift most welcome to my Woe,
And such a Gift a Stepdame may bestow.
Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd,
Whose barb'rous Temples reek'd with Stranger's Blood?
Press'd in these Arms his Fate Anteus found,
Nor gain'd recruited Vigour from the Ground.
Did I not triple form'd Geryon fell?
Or did I fear the triple Dog of Hell?
Did not these Hands the Bull's arm'd Forehead hold?
Are not our mighty Toils in Elis told?
Do not Stymphalian Lakes proclaim thy Fame?
And fair Parthenian Woods resound thy Name?
Who seiz'd the golden Belt of Thermodon?
And who the Dragon-guarded Apples won?
Could the fierce Centaur's Strength my Force withstand?
Or the fell Boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian Land?
Did not these Arms the Hydra's Rage subdue,
Who from his Wounds to double Fury grew?
What if the Thracian Horses fat with Gore,
Who human Bodies in their Mangers tore,
I saw and with their barb'rous Lord o'erthrew?
What if these Hands Nemæa's Lion slew?
Did not this Neck the heav'nly Globe sustain?
The Female Partner of the Thunderer's Reign
Fatigu'd at length suspends her harsh Commands,
Yet no Fatigue hath slack'd these valiant Hands.

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