And to this Hour the mournful Purple wears
Ai, Ai, inscrib'd in funeral Characters.
Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam'd
For Virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd;
But still with pompous Woe, and solemn State,
The Hyacinthian Feasts they yearly celebrate,
The Transformations of the Cærastæ and
Propætides.
Enquire of Amathus, whose wealthy Ground
With Veins of every Metal does abound.
If she to her Propetides wou'd show,
The Honour Sparta does to him allow;
No more, she'd say, such Wretches wou'd we grace,
Than those whose crooked Horns deform'd their Face,
From thence Cerastæ call'd; an impious Race;
Before whose Gates a rev'rend Altar stood,
To Jove inscrib'd, the hospitable God:
This had some Stranger seen with Gore besmear'd,
The Blood of Lambs, and Bulls it had appear'd:
Their slaughter'd Guests it was; not Flock nor Herd.
Venus these barb'rous Sacrifices view'd
With just Abhorrence, and with Wrath pursu'd:
At first, to punish such nefarious Crimes,
Their Towns she meant to leave, her once-lov'd Climes.
But why, said she, for their Offence shou'd I,
My dear delightful Plains, and Cities fly?
No, let the impious People, who have sinn'd.
A Punishment in Death, or Exile find:
If Death, or Exile too severe be thought,
Let them in some vile Shape bemoan their Fault.
While next her Mind a proper Form employs,
Admonish'd by their Horns, she fix'd her Choice,
Their
