By Ovid

                                   Written 1 A.C.E.
                    Translated by Sir Samuel Garth, John Dryden, et al

                                      Book the Third

The Birth of Bacchus

     Actaeon's suff'rings, and Diana's rage,
     Did all the thoughts of men and Gods engage;
     Some call'd the evils which Diana wrought,
     Too great, and disproportion'd to the fault:
     Others again, esteem'd Actaeon's woes
     Fit for a virgin Goddess to impose.
     The hearers into diff'rent parts divide,
     And reasons are produc'd on either side.

     Juno alone, of all that heard the news,
     Nor would condemn the Goddess, nor excuse:
     She heeded not the justice of the deed,
     But joy'd to see the race of Cadmus bleed;
     For still she kept Europa in her mind,
     And, for her sake, detested all her kind.
     Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard
     How Semele, to Jove's embrace preferr'd,
     Was now grown big with an immortal load,
     And carry'd in her womb a future God.
     Thus terribly incens'd, the Goddess broke
     To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke.

     "Are my reproaches of so small a force?
     'Tis time I then pursue another course:
     It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die,
     If I'm indeed the mistress of the sky,
     If rightly styl'd among the Pow'rs above
     The wife and sister of the thund'ring Jove
     (And none can sure a sister's right deny);
     It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die.
     She boasts an honour I can hardly claim,
     Pregnant she rises to a mother's name;
     While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove,
     And shows the glorious tokens of his love:
     But if I'm still the mistress of the skies,
     By her own lover the fond beauty dies."
     This said, descending in a yellow cloud,
     Before the gates of Semele she stood.

     Old Beroe's decrepit shape she wears,
     Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs;
     Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on,
     And learns to tattle in the nurse's tone.
     The Goddess, thus disguis'd in age, beguil'd
     With pleasing stories her false foster-child.
     Much did she talk of love, and when she came
     To mention to the nymph her lover's name,
     Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head,
     "'Tis well," says she, "if all be true that's said.
     But trust me, child, I'm much inclin'd to fear
     Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter:
     Many an honest well-designing maid
     Has been by these pretended Gods betray'd,
     But if he be indeed the thund'ring Jove,
     Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love,
     Descend triumphant from th' etherial sky,
     In all the pomp of his divinity,
     Encompass'd round by those celestial charms,
     With which he fills th' immortal Juno's arms."

     Th' unwary nymph, ensnar'd with what she said,
     Desir'd of Jove, when next he sought her bed,
     To grant a certain gift which she would chuse;
     "Fear not," reply'd the God, "that I'll refuse
     Whate'er you ask: may Styx confirm my voice,
     Chuse what you will, and you shall have your choice."
     "Then," says the nymph, "when next you seek my arms,
     May you descend in those celestial charms,
     With which your Juno's bosom you enflame,
     And fill with transport Heav'n's immortal dame."
     The God surpriz'd would fain have stopp'd her voice,
     But he had sworn, and she had made her choice.

     To keep his promise he ascends, and shrowds
     His awful brow in whirl-winds and in clouds;
     Whilst all around, in terrible array,
     His thunders rattle, and his light'nings play.
     And yet, the dazling lustre to abate,
     He set not out in all his pomp and state,
     Clad in the mildest light'ning of the skies,
     And arm'd with thunder of the smallest size:
     Not those huge bolts, by which the giants slain
     Lay overthrown on the Phlegrean plain.
     'Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight;
     They call it thunder of a second-rate,
     For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove's command
     Temper'd the bolt, and turn'd it to his hand,
     Work'd up less flame and fury in its make,
     And quench'd it sooner in the standing lake.
     Thus dreadfully adorn'd, with horror bright,
     Th' illustrious God, descending from his height,
     Came rushing on her in a storm of light.

     The mortal dame, too feeble to engage
     The lightning's flashes, and the thunder's rage,
     Consum'd amidst the glories she desir'd,
     And in the terrible embrace expir'd.

     But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb,
     Jove took him smoaking from the blasted womb:
     And, if on ancient tales we may rely,
     Inclos'd th' abortive infant in his thigh.
     Here when the babe had all his time fulfill'd,
     Ino first took him for her foster-child;
     Then the Niseans, in their dark abode,
     Nurs'd secretly with milk the thriving God.