But now new Plagues persue me, neither Force,
Nor Arms, nor Darts can stop their raging Course.
Devouring Flame thro' my rack'd Entrails strays,
And on my Lungs and shrivel'd Muscles preys.
Yet still Eurystheus breaths the vital Air.
What Mortal now shall seek the Gods with Pray'r?
The Transformation of Lychas into a Rock.
The Hero said; and with the Torture Stung,
Furious o'er OEte's lofty Hills he sprung.
Stuck with the Shaft, thus scours the Tyger round,
And seeks the flying Author of his Wound.
Now might you see him trembling, now he vents
His anguish'd Soul in Groans, and loud Laments;
He strives to tear the clinging Vest in vain,
And with up rooted Forests strows the Plain;
Now kindling into Rage, his Hands he rears,
And to his kindred Gods directs his Pray'rs.
When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew,
And in a hollow Rock conceal'd from View,
Had shun'd his Wrath. Now Grief renew'd His Pain,
His Madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again.
Lychas, to thee alone my Fate I owe,
Who bore the Gift, the Cause of all my Woe.
The Youth all pale, with shiv'ring Fear was stung,
And vain Excuses falter'd on his Tongue.
Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant Face
He strove to clasp his Knees, and beg for Grace:
He toss'd him o'er his Head with airy Course,
And hurl'd with more than with an Engines Force?
Far o'er th' Eubæan Main aloof he flies,
And hardens by Degrees amid the Skies.
So showry Drops, when chilly Tempests blow,
Thicken at first, then whiten into Snow,
