who durst attempt to taste it with unhallowed lips, and for a lesson to all, not to draw too deep, or far from the spring.
At the fountain-head Wotton discerned two heroes; the one he could not distinguish, but the other was soon known for Temple, general of the allies to the ancients. His back was turned, and he was employed in drinking large draughts in his helmet from the fountain, where he had withdrawn himself to rest from the toils of the war. Wotton observing him, with quaking knees and trembling hands spoke thus to himself: O, that I could kill this destroyer of our army; what renown should I purchase among the chiefs? but to issue out against him, man against man, shield against shield, and lance against lance[1], what modern of us dare? for he fights like a god, and Pallas, or Apollo, are ever at his elbow. But, O, mother! if what fame reports be true, that I am the son of so great a goddess, grant me to hit Temple with this lance, that the stroke may send him to Hell, and that I may return in safety and triumph, laden with his spoils. The first part of this prayer, the gods granted at the intercession of his mother, and of Momus; but the rest, by a perverse wind sent from fate, was scattered in the air. Then Wotton grasped his lance, and brandishing it thrice over his head, darted it with all his might, the goddess his mother, at the same time, adding strength to his arm. Away the lance went hizzlng, and reached even to the belt of the averted ancient, upon which lightly grazing it fell to the ground. Temple neither felt the wea-
