The foaming juices now the Brink o'er-swell;
The barren Heath, where-e'er the Liquor fell,
Sprang out with vernal Grass, and all the Pride
Of blooming May———When this Medea spy'd,
She cuts her Patient's Throat; th' exhausted Blood
Recruiting with her new enchanted Flood;
While at his Mouth, and thro' his op'ning Wound,
A double Inlet her Infusion found;
His feeble Frame resumes a youthful Air,
A glossy Brown his hoary Beard and Hair.
The meager Paleness from his Aspect fled,
And in its Room sprang up a florid Red;
Thro' all his Limbs a youthful Vigour flies,
His empty'd Art'ries swell with fresh Supplies:
Gazing Spectators scarce believe their Eyes.
But Æson is the most surpriz'd, to find
A happy Change in Body, and in Mind;
In Sense and Constitution the same Man,
As when his Fortieth active Year began.
Bacchus, who from the Clouds this Wonder view'd,
Medea's Method instantly pursu'd,
And his indulgent Nurse's Youth renew'd.
The Death of Pelias.
Thus far obliging Love employ'd her Art,
But now Revenge must act a tragick Part;
Medea feigns a mortal Quarrel bred
Betwixt her, and the Partner of her Bed;
On this Pretence to Pelias' Court she flies,
Who, languishing with Age and Sickness lies:
His guiltless Daughters, with inveigling Wiles,
And well-dissembled Friendship, she beguiles:
The strange Atchievements of her Art she tells,
With Æson's Cure, and long on that she dwells,
