Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/313

Yet I that Jav'lin's Stem with Wonder view,
Too brown for Box, too smooth a Grain for Yew.
I cannot guess the Tree; but never Art
Did form, or Eyes behold so fair a Dart!
The Guest then interrupts him———'Twou'd produce
Still greater Wonder, if you knew its Use.
It never fails to strike the Game, and then
Comes bloody back into your Hand again.
Then Phocus each Particular desires,
And th' Author of the wond'rous Gift enquires.
To which the Owner thus, with weeping Eyes,
And Sorrow for his Wife's sad Fate, replies,
This Weapon here (O Prince!) can you believe
This Dart the Cause for which so much I grieve;
And shall continue to grieve on, 'till Fate
Afford such wretched Life no longer Date.
Would I this fatal Gift had ne'er enjoy'd,
This fatal Gift my tender Wife destroy'd:
Procris her Name, ally'd in Charms and Blood
To fair Orythia, courted by a God.
Her Father seal'd my Hopes with Rites Divine,
But firmer Love before had made her mine.
Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed.
The second Month our Nuptials did succeed;
When (as upon Hymettus' dewy Head,
For Mountain Stags, my Net betimes I spread)
Aurora spy'd, and ravish'd me away,
With Rev'rence to the Goddess, I must say,
Against my Will, for Procris had my Heart,
Nor wou'd her Image from my Thoughts depart.
At last, in Rage she cry'd, Ingrateful Boy
Go to your Procris, take your fatal Joy;
And so dismiss'd me: Musing, as I went,
What those Expressions of the Goddess meant,
A thousand jealous Fears possess me now,
Lest Procris had prophan'd her Nuptial Vow: