Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray. A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care And a slow wing, he softly stems the air, Yet they--as subtle now as he--surround His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge, 'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge; So, joyous of their prize, they flock about And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout. Far in these shades and melancholy coasts A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts, Whose stretch'd top--like a great man rais'd by Fate-- Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate; His leafy arms into a green cloud twist, And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist, A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods, Where for disdain in life--Love's worst of odds-- The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack The sad Adonis: hither now they pack This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind His skittish wings, then both his hands behind His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last, The peevish wanton to the tree make fast. Here at adventure, without judge or jury, He is condemn'd, while with united fury They all assail him. As a thief at bar Left to the law, and mercy of his star, Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there By all the men that have been robb'd that year; So now whatever Fate or their own will Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill. Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain, And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign, Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen, Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed. One grasps an airy sword, a second holds Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear To let him blood, and from the purple tear Create a rose. But Sappho all this while Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe Without all noise, yet so exactly move They seem to chide, but distant from above Reach not the ear, and--thus prepar'd--at once She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce. Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they, Venus steps in, and without thought or stay Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast In their embraces were expos'd to all The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall. Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste From her fair brow--O happy flow'rs so plac'd!-- She tears a rosy garland, and with this Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss