Their alter'd Forms their Senses soon reveal'd;
Their Forms, how alter'd, Darkness still conceal'd.
Close to the Roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs,
Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless Wings.
They strove for Words, their little Bodies found
No Words, but murmur'd in a fainting Sound.
In Towns, not Woods, the sooty Batts delight,
And never, till the Dusk, begin their Flight;
Till Vesper rises with his Ev'ning Flame;
From whom the Romans have deriv'd their Name.
The Transformation of Ino and Melicerta to Sea-Gods.
The Pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown,
With awful Rev'rence soon the God they own.
Proud Ino, all around, the Wonder tells,
And on her Nephew Deity still dwells.
Of num'rous Sisters, she alone yet knew
No Grief, but Grief, which she from Sisters drew.
Imperial Juno saw her with Disdain,
Vain in her Offspring, in her Consort vain,
Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a Nod,
But saw her vainest in her Foster-God.
Could then (she cry'd) a Bastard-Boy have Pow'r
To make a Mother her own Son devour?
Could he the Tuscan Crew to Fishes change,
And now three Sisters damn to Forms so strange?
Yet shall the Wife of Jove find no Relief?
Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her Grief?
Have I the mighty Freedom to complain?
Is that my Pow'r? is that to ease my Pain?
A Foe has taught me Vengeance, and who ought
To scorn that Vengeance, which a Foe has taught?
What sure Destruction frantick Rage can throw,
The gaping Wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show.
