His Nails grow crooked, and are turn'd to Claws,
And lazily along his heavy Wings he draws.
Ill-omen'd in his Form, the unlucky Fowl,
Abhorr'd by Men, and call'd a Scrieching Owl.
The Daughters of Achelous transform'd to Sirens.
Justly this Punishment was due to him,
And less had been too little for his Crime;
But, O ye Nymphs that from the Flood descend,
What Fault of yours the Gods cou'd so offend,
With Wings and Claws your beauteous Forms to spoil,
Yet save your maiden Face, and winning Smile?
Were you not with her in Pergusa's Bow'rs,
When Proserpine went forth to gather Flow'rs?
Since Pluto in his Carr the Goddess caught,
Have you not for her in each Climate sought?
And when on Land you long had search'd in vain,
You wish'd for Wings to cross the pathless Main;
That Earth and Sea might witness to your Care:
The Gods were easy and return'd your Pray'r;
With golden Wing o'er foamy Waves you fled,
And to the Sun your plumy Glories spread.
But, lest the soft Enchantment of your Songs,
And the sweet Musick of your flatt'ring Tongues
Shou'd quite be lost, (as courteous Fates ordain)
Your Voice and Virgin Beauty still remain.
Jove some Amends for Ceres' Loss to make,
Yet willing Pluto shou'd the Joy partake,
Gives 'em of Proserpine an equal Share,
Who, claim'd by both, with both divides the Year.
The Goddess now in either Empire sways,
Six Moons in Hell, and six with Ceres stays.
Her peevish Temper's chang'd; that sullen Mind,
Which made ev'n Hell uneasy, now is kind.
