Stept forth, and flung full in the Tyrant's Face
The Head of Itys, goary as it was:
Nor ever long'd so much to use her Tongue,
And with a just Reproach to vindicate her Wrong.
The Thracian Monarch from the Table flings,
While with his Cries the vaulted Parlour rings;
His Imprecations echo down to Hell,
And rouze the snaky Furies from their Stygian Cell.
One while he labours to disgorge his Breast,
And free his Stomach from the cursed Feast;
Then, weeping o'er his lamentable Doom,
He stiles himself his Son's sepulchral Tomb.
Now, with drawn Sabre, and impetuous Speed,
In close Pursuit he drives Pandion's Breed;
Whose nimble Feet spring with so swift a Force
Across the Fields, they seem to wing their Course.
And now, on real Wings themselves they raise,
And steer their airy Flight by diff'rent Ways;
One to the Woodland's shady Covert hies,
Around the smoaky Roof the other flies;
Whose Feathers yet the Marks of Murder stain,
Where, stampt upon her Breast, the crimson Spots remain.
Tereus, through Grief, and Haste to be reveng'd,
Shares the like Fate, and to a Bird is chang'd:
Fix'd on his Head, the crested Plumes appear,
Long is his Beak, and sharpen'd like a Spear;
Thus arm'd, his Looks his inward Mind display,
And, to a Lapwing turn'd, he fans his Way.
Exceeding Trouble, for his Children's Fate,
Shorten'd Pandion's Days, and chang'd his Date;
Down to the Shades below, with Sorrow spent,
An earlier, unexpected Ghost he went.
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