And, as the Fowler with his subtle Gins,
His feather'd Captives by the Feet entwines,
That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose,
Yet only closer draw the fatal Noose;
So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain
To quit the Place, they but increas'd their Pain.
They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd,
The Root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its Hold.
In vain their Toes, and Feet they look to find,
For ev'n their shapely Legs are cloath'd with Rind.
One smites her Thighs with a lamenting Stroke,
And finds the Flesh transform'd to solid Oak;
Another, with Surprize, and Grief distrest,
Lays on above, but beats a wooden Breast.
A rugged Bark their softer Neck invades,
Their branching Arms shoot up delightful Shades;
At once they seem, and are a real Grove,
With mossy Trunks below, and verdant Leaves above.
The Fable of Midas.
Nor this suffic'd; the God's Disgust remains,
And he resolves to quit their hated Plains;
The Vineyards of Tymole ingross his Care,
And, with a better Choir he fixes there;
Where the smooth Streams of clear Pactolus roll'd,
Then undistinguish'd for its Sands of Gold.
The Satyrs with the Nymphs, his usual Throng,
Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along.
Silenus only miss'd, for while he reel'd,
Feeble with Age, and Wine, about the Field,
The hoary Drunkard had forgot his Way,
And to the Phrygian Clowns became a Prey,
Who to King Midas drag the Captive God,
While on his totty Pate the Wreaths of Ivy nod.
