Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/236

Fear still with Grief might in her Face be seen;
She still her Rape laments; yet, made a Queen,
Beneath those gloomy Shades her Sceptre sways,
And ev'n th' infernal King her Will obeys.
This heard, the Goddess like a Statue stood,
Stupid with Grief; and in that musing Mood
Continu'd long; new Cares awhile supprest
The reigning Pow'rs of her immortal Breast.
At laft to Jove her Daughter's Sire she flies,
And with her Chariot cuts the crystal Skies;
She comes in Clouds, and with dishevel'd Hair,
Standing before his Throne, prefers her Pray'r.
King of the Gods, defend my Blood and thine,
And use it not the worse for being mine.
If I no more am gracious in thy Sight,
Be just, O Jove, and do thy Daughter right.
In vain I sought her the wide World around,
And, when I most despair'd to find her, found.
But how can I the fatal Finding boast,
By which I know she is for ever lost?
Without her Father's Aid, what other Pow'r
Can to my Arms the ravish'd Maid restore?
Let him restore her, I'll the Crime forgive,
My Child, tho' ravish'd, I'd with Joy receive.
Pity, your Daughter with a Thief shou'd wed,
Tho' mine, you think, deserves no better Bed.
Jove thus replies; it equally belongs
To both, to guard our common Pledge from Wrongs.
But if to things we proper Names apply,
This hardly can be call'd an Injury.
The Theft is Love; nor need we blush to own
The Thief, if I can judge, to be our Son.
Had you of his Desert no other Proof,
To be Jove's Brother is methinks enough.
Nor was my Throne by Worth superior got,
Heav'n fell to me, as Hell to him, by Lot:

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