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The Goddess goes exulting from his fight, And feeks the feas profound; and leaves the realms of light.
He moves into his hall: the Pow'rs refort, Each from his house to fill the fovereign's court. Nor waiting fummons, nor expecting stood; But met with reverence, and receiv'd the God. He mounts the throne; and Juno took her place: But fullen discontent fate low'ring on her face. With jealous eyes, at diftance fhe had feen, Whifp'ring with Jove, the filver-footed Queen; Then, impotent of tongue (her filence broke) Thus turbulent in rattling tone she spoke.
Author of ills, and clofe contriver Jove, Which of thy dames, what proftitute of love, Has held thy ear fo long, and begg'd so hard, For fome old fervice done, fome new reward? Apart you talk'd, for that's your fpecial care, The confort never muft the council fhare. One gracious word is for a wife too much: Such is a marriage-vow, and Jove's own faith is fuch.
Then thus the Sire of Gods, and men below, What I have hidden, hope not thou to know. Ev'n Goddeffes are women: and no wife Has pow'r to regulate her husband's life:
Beware to learn; nor prefs too near the throne. To whom the Goddess with the charming eyes,
What haft thou faid, O tyrant of the skies!
My houfhold curfe, my lawful plague, the spy
Curb that impetuous tongue, before too late
This heard, th' imperious Queen fate mute with fear:
Nor further durft incense the gloomy Thunderer. Silence was in the court at this rebuke:
Nor could the Gods abafh'd, fuftain their fov'reign's look.
The limping Smith obferv'd the fadden'd feast, And hopping here and there, (himself a jest) Put in his word, that neither might offend; To Jove obfequious, yet his mother's friend. What end in heav'n will be of civil war, If Gods of pleasure will for mortals jar ? Such difcord but difturbs our jovial feast; One grain of bad, embitters all the best. Mother, tho wife yourself, my counsel weigh;. 'Tis much unsafe my fire to disobey. Not only you provoke him to your cost,
But mirth is marr'd, and the good chear is lost. Tempt not his heavy hand; for he has pow'r To throw you headlong, from his heav'nly tow'r. But one fubmiffive word, which you let fall, Will make him in good humour with us all.
He faid no more; but crown'd a bowl, unbid: The laughing nectar overlook'd the lid : Then put it to her hand; and thus purfu'd, This curfed quarrel be no more renew'd. Be, as becomes a wife, obedient ftill; Tho griev'd, yet fsubject to her husband's will. I would not fee you beaten; yet afraid Of Jove's fuperior force, I dare not aid. Too well I know him, fince that hapless hour When I, and all the Gods employ'd our pow'r To break your bonds: me by the heel he drew, And o'er heav'n's battlements with fury threw. All day I fell; my flight at morn begun, And ended not but with the setting fun. Pitch'd on my head, at length the Lemnian ground Receiv'd my batter'd skull, the Sinthians heal'd my wound.
At Vulcan's homely mirth his mother smil'd, And smiling took the cup the clown had fill'd. The reconciler-bowl went round the board, Which empty'd, the rude skinker still reftor'd. Loud fits of laughter feiz'd the guests, to see The limping God fo deft at his new miniftry. The feast continu'd till declining light: They drank, they laugh'd, they lov'd, and then 'twas night.
Nor wanted tuneful harp, nor vocal quire;