Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/181

Tho' rich (he cry 'd) with many a precious Stain,
Still from my Blood a deeper Tincture gain.
Then in his Breast his shining Sword he drown'd,
And fell supine, extended on the Ground.
As out again the Blade he dying drew,
Out spun the Blood, and streaming upwards flew.
So if a Conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw,
Swift spring the gushing Waters thro' the Flaw:
Then spouting in a Bow, they rise on high,
And a new Fountain plays amid the Sky.
The Berries, stain'd with Blood, began to show
A dark Complexion, and forgot their Snow;
While fatten'd with the flowing Gore, the Root
Was doom'd for ever to a purple Fruit.
Mean time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd,
Her Lover might suspect a perjur'd Maid.
Her Fright scarce o'er, she strove the Youth to find
With ardent Eyes, which spoke an ardent Mind.
Already in his Arms, she hears him sigh
At her Destruction, which was once so nigh.
The Tomb, the Tree, but not the Fruit she knew,
The Fruit she doubted for its alter'd Hue.
Still as she doubts, her Eyes a Body found
Quiv'ring in Death, and gasping on the Ground.
She started back, the Red her Cheeks forsook,
And ev'ry Nerve with thrilling Horrors shook.
So trembles the smooth Surface of the Seas,
If brush'd o'er gently with a rising Breeze.
But when her View her bleeding Love confest,
She shriek'd, she tore her Hair, she beat her Breast.
She rais'd the Body, and embrac'd it round,
And bath'd with Tears unfeign'd the gaping Wound.
Then her warm Lips to the cold Face apply'd,
And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd!
My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel Fate?
My Pyramus!———ah! speak, e'er 'tis too late.

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