Soon as the Secret to the King was known,
He grudg'd the Glory of the Service done,
And wickedly resolv'd to make it all his own.
To hide his Purpose, he invites his Guest,
The Friend of Ceres to a royal Feast.
And when sweet Sleep his heavy Eyes had seiz'd,
The Tyrant with his Steel attempts his Breast.
Him strait a Lynx's Shape the Goddess gives,
And home the Youth her sacred Dragons drives.
The Pierides transform'd to Magpies.
The chosen Muse here ends her sacred Lays;
The Nymphs unanimous decree the Bays,
And give the Heliconian Goddesses the Praise.
Then, far from vain that we shou'd thus prevail,
But much provok'd to hear the Vanquish'd rail,
Calliopè resumes; too long we've born
Your daring Taunts, and your affronting Scorn;
Your Challenge justly merited a Curse,
And this unmanner'd Railing makes it worse.
Since you refuse us calmly to enjoy
Our Patience, next our Passions we'll employ;
The Dictates of a Mind enrag'd pursue,
And, what our just Resentment bids us, do.
The Railers Laugh, our Threats and Wrath despise,
And clap their Hands, and make a scolding Noise:
But in the Fact they're seiz'd; beneath their Nails
Feathers they feel, and on their Faces Scales;
Their horny Beaks at once each other scare,
Their Arms are plum'd, and on their backs they bear
Py'd Wings, and flutter in the fleeting Air.
Chatt'ring, the Scandal of the Woods they fly,
And there continue still their clam'rous Cry:
The same their Eloquence, as Maids, or Birds,
Now only Noise, and nothing then but Words.
The End of the Fifth Book.
