The fire far-gleaming in the midst of men. And for the flame restored, he straight devised A mischief to mankind. At Jove’s behest Famed Vulcan fashion’d from the yielding clay A bashful virgin’s likeness: and the maid Of azure eyes, Minerva, round her waist Clasp’d the broad zone, and dress’d her limbs in robe Of flowing whiteness; placed upon her head A wondrous veil of variegated threads; Entwined amidst her hair delicious wreaths Of verdant herbage and fresh-blooming flowers; And set a golden mitre on her brow; Which Vulcan framed, and with adorning hands Wrought, at the pleasure of his father Jove. Rich-labour’d figures, marvellous to sight, Enchased the border: forms of beasts that range The earth, and fishes of the rolling deep: Of these innumerable he there had graven; And exquisite the beauty of his art Shone in these wonders, like to animals Moving in breath, with vocal sounds of life. Now when his plastic hand instead of good Had framed this beauteous bane, he led her forth Where were the other gods and mingled men. She went exulting in her graced array, Which Pallas, daughter of a mighty sire, Known by her eyes of azure, had bestow’d. On gods and men in that same moment seiz’d The ravishment of wonder, when they saw The deep deceit, th’ inextricable snare. From her the sex of tender woman springs: [204]Pernicious is the race: the woman tribe Dwell upon earth, a mighty bane to men: No mates for wasting want, but luxury: And as within the close-roof’d hive, the drones, Helpers of sloth, are pamper’d by the bees; These all the day, till sinks the ruddy sun, Haste on the wing, “their murmuring labours ply,” And still cement the white and waxen comb: Those lurk within the cover’d hive, and reap With glutted maw the fruits of others’ toil; Such evil did the Thunderer send to man In woman’s form, and so he gave the sex, Ill helpmates of intolerable toils. Yet more of ill instead of good he gave: The man who shunning wedlock thinks to shun The vexing cares that haunt the woman-state, And lonely waxes old, shall feel the want Of one to foster his declining years: Though not his life be needy, yet his death Shall scatter his possessions to strange heirs, And aliens from his blood. Or if his lot Be marriage, and his spouse of modest fame, Congenial to his heart, e’en then shall ill For ever struggle with the partial good, And cling to his condition. But the man, Who gains the woman of injurious kind, Lives bearing in his secret soul and heart Inevitable sorrow: ills so deep As all the balms of medicine cannot cure. Therefore it is not lawful to elude The eye of Heaven, nor mock th’ Omniscient Mind. For not Prometheus, the benevolent, Could shun Heaven’s heavy wrath: and vain were all