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And as fhe were with vital fenfe poffefs'd,
Her head did on a plumy pillow reft.

The feaft of Venus came, a folemn day,
To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;
With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,
Slaughter'd before the facred altars, bled:
Pygmalion offering, firft approach'd the thrine,
And then with prayers implor'd the pow'rs divine:
Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,

If all we can require, be yours to grant;

Make this fair ftatue mine, he wou'd have faid,
But chang'd his words for fhame, and only pray'd,
Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid.

The golden Goddefs, prefent at the prayer,
Well knew he meant th' inanimated fair,
And gave the fign of granting his defire;
For thrice in chearful flames afcends the fire.
The youth, returning to his mistress, hies,
And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,
And beating breaft, by the dear ftatue lies.
He kiffes her white lips, renews the blifs,
And looks and thinks they redden at the kifs :
He thought them warm before; nor longer stays,
But next his hand on her hard bosom lays :
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,

It feem'd the breast beneath his fingers bent;
He felt again, his fingers made a print,

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'Twas flesh, but flesh fo firm, it rofe, against the dint.
The pleafing task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft at ev'ry touch it grew;
Like pliant wax, when chafing hands reduce
The former mafs to form, and frame to use.
He would believe, but yet is ftill in pain,
And tries his argument of sense again,
Preffes the pulfé, and feels the leaping vein,

}

Convinc'd,

Convinc'd, o'erjoyed, his studied thanks and praise,
To her who made the miracle, he pays:

Then lips to lips he join'd; now freed from fear,
He found the favour of the kifs fincere:

At this the waken'd image op'd her

eyes,

And view'd at once the light and lover, with surprise.
The Goddess prefent at the match she made,
So blefs'd the bed, fuch fruitfulness convey'd,
That ere ten moons had fharpen'd either horn,
To crown their blifs, a lovely boy was born;
Paphos his name, who, grown to manhood, wall'd
The city Paphos, from the founder call'd.

CINYRAS

Out of the Tenth Book of

'OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

There needs no connexion of this story with the former : for the beginning of this immediately follows the end of the laft: the reader is only to take notice, that Orpheus, who relates both, was by birth a Thracian; and his country far diftant from Cyprus where Myrrha was born, and from Arabia whither fhe fled. You will see the reason of this note, foon after the first lines of this fable.

N

OR him alone produc'd the fruitful queen;

But Cinyras, who like his fire had been
A happy prince, had he not been a fire.
Daughters and fathers from my fong retire:
I fing of horror; and, could I prevail,
You shou'd not hear, or not believe my tale.
Yet if the pleasure of my fong be fuch,
That you will hear, and credit me too much,
Attentive liften to the last event,
And with the fin believe the punishment:
Since nature cou'd behold fo dire a crime,
I gratulate at least my native clime,

That fuch a land, which fuch a monster bore,
So far is diftant from our Thracian fhore.

Let Araby extol her happy coaft,

Her cinnamon and fweet Amomum boast,

Her fragrant flow'rs, her trees with precious tears,
Her fecond harvefts, and her double years?
How can the land be call'd fo blefs'd that Myrrha bears?

Not

Not all her od❜rous tears can cleanfe her crime,
Her plant alone deforms the happy clime:
Cupid denies to have inflam'd thy heart,
Difowns thy love, and vindicates his dart;
Some fury gave thee thofe infernal pains,
And fhot her venom'd vipers in thy veins.
To hate thy fire, had merited a curfe :
But fuch an impious love deferv'd a worse.
The neighb'ring monarchs, by thy beauty led,.
Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed:
The world is at thy choice, except but one,
Except but him, thou canst not choose, alone.
She knew it too, the miferable maid,
Ere impious love her better thoughts betray'd,
And thus within her fecret foul fhe faid:
Ah Myrrha! whither wou'd thy wishes tend?
Ye Gods, ye facred laws, my foul defend
From fuch a crime as all mankind deteft,
And never lodg'd before in human breast!
But is it fin? Or makes my mind alone
Th' imagin'd fin? For nature makes it none.
What tyrant then these envious laws began,
Made not for any other beaft but man!
The father-bull his daughter may bestride,
The horse may make his mother-mare a bride;
What piety forbids the lufty ram,

Or more falacious goat, to rut their dam?
The hen is free to wed her chick fhe bore,
And make a husband, whom she hatch'd before.
All creatures elfe are of a happier kind,
Whom nor ill-natur'd laws from pleasure bind,
Nor thoughts of fin difturb their peace of mind.
But man a flave of his own making lives;
The fool denies himself what nature gives :
Too bufy fenates, with an over-care

To make us better than our kind can bear,

}

Have dash'd a fpice of envy in the laws,

And ftraining up too high, have spoil'd the caufe.
Yet fome wife nations break their cruel chains,
And own no laws, but thofe which love ordains:
Where happy daughters with their fires are join'd,
And piety is doubly paid in kind.

O that I had been born in fuch a clime,

Not here, where 'tis the country makes the crime !
But whither wou'd my impious fancy ftray?
Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts away!
His worth deserves to kindle my defires,
But with the love that daughters bear to fires.
Then had not Cinyras my father been,
What hinder'd Myrrha's hopes to be his qucen ?
But the perverfenefs of my fate is fuch,
That's he's not mine, because he's mine too much :
Our kindred-blood debars a better tie;
He might be nearer, were he not so high.
Eyes and their objects never must unite,
Some diftance is requir'd to help the fight:
Fain wou'd I travel to fome foreign fhore,
Never to fee my native country more,
So might I to myself myself restore ;

So might my mind these impious thoughts remove,
And ceafing to behold, might ceafe to love.
But ftay I muft, to feed my famifh'd fight,
To talk, to kifs; and more, if more I might:
More, impious maid! What more canft thou defign,
To make a monftrous mixture in thy line,
And break all ftatutes human and divine ?
Canft thou be call'd (to fave thy wretched life)
Thy mother's rival, and thy father's wife ?
Confound fo many facred names in one,
Thy brother's mother! fifter to thy fon!
And fear'ft thou not to fee th' infernal bands,

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Their heads with fnakes, with torches arm'd their hands,

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