He met us there, and in his artful Mind
Hiding the faithless Action he design'd,
Confer'd on us (whom, oh! too well he knew)
All Honours that to Goddesses are due,
Stop, stop, ye Muses, 'tis your Friend who calls,
The Tyrant said; behold the Rain that falls
On ev'ry Side, and that ill-boding Sky,
Whose lowring Face portends more Storms are nigh.
Pray make my House your own, and void of Fear,
While this bad Weather lasts, take Shelter here.
Gods have made meaner Places their Resort,
And, for a Cottage, left their shining Court.
Oblig'd to stop, by the united Force
Of pouring Rains, and complaisant Discourse,
His courteous Invitation we obey,
And in his Hall resolve awhile to stay.
Soon it clear'd up; the Clouds began to fly,
The driving North refin'd the show'ry Sky;
Then to pursue our Journey we began:
But the false Traitor to his Portal ran,
Stopt our Escape, the Door securely barr'd,
And to our Honour, Violence prepar'd.
But we, transform'd to Birds, avoid his Snare,
On Pinions rising in the yielding Air.
But he, by Lust and Indignation fir'd,
Up to his highest Tow'r with Speed retir'd,
And cries, In vain you from my Arms withdrew,
The Way you go your Lover will pursue.
Then, in a flying Posture wildly plac'd,
And daring from that Height himself to cast,
The Wretch fell headlong, and the Ground bestrew'd
With broken Bones, and Stains of guilty Blood.