That Enterprize by Fates in store was kept,
To make the Dragon sleep, that never slept,
Whose Crest shoots dreadful Lustre; from his Jaws
A tripple Tire of forked Stings he draws,
With Fangs, and Wings of a prodigious Size:
Such was the Guardian of the Golden Prize.
Yet him, besprinkled with Lethæan Dew,
The fair Inchantress into Slumber threw;
And then, to fix him, thrice she did repeat
The Rhyme, that makes the raging Winds retreat;
In stormy Seas can halcyon Seasons make,
Turn rapid Streams into a standing Lake;
While the soft Guest his drowzy Eye-lids seals,
Th'unguarded Golden Fleece the Stranger steals.
Proud to possess the Purchase of his Toil,
Proud of his Royal Bride, the richer Spoil;
To Sea both Prize, and Patroness he bore,
And Lands triumphant on his native Shore.
Old Æson restor'd to Youth.
Æmonian Matrons, who their Absence mourn'd,
Rejoyce to see their prosp'rous Sons return'd:
Rich curling Fumes of Incense feast the Skies,
An Hecatomb of voted Victims dies,
With gilded Horns, and Garlands on their Head,
And all the Pomp of Death, to th' Altar led.
Congratulating Bowls go briskly round,
Triumphant Shouts in louder Musick drown'd.
Amidst these Revels, why that Cloud of Care
On Jason's Brow? (to whom the largest Share
Of Mirth was due)———His Father was not there.
Æson was absent, once the Young, and Brave,
Now crush'd with Years, and bending to the Grave.
