No remedies to heal their love-sick lord! To cure the pains of love, no plant avails, And his own physic the physician fails. She heard not half, so furiously she flies, And on her ear the imperfect accent dies. Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind Increasing spread her flowing hair behind; And left her legs and thighs exposed to view, Which made the god more eager to pursue. The god was young, and was too hotly bent To lose his time in empty compliment; But led by love, and fired by such a sight, Impetuously pursued his near delight. As when the impatient greyhound, slipt from far, Bounds o'er the glebe, to course the fearful hare, She in her speed does all her safety lay, And he with double speed pursues the prey; O'er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix;[23] She 'scapes, and for the neighbouring covert strives, And gaining shelter doubts if yet she lives. If little things with great we may compare, Such was the god, and such the flying fair: She, urged by fear, her feet did swiftly move, But he more swiftly, who was urged by love. He gathers ground upon her in the chace; } Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace, } And just is fastening on the wished embrace. } The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright, Spent with the labour of so long a flight, And now despairing, cast a mournful look Upon the streams of her paternal brook: Oh help, she cried, in this extremest need, If water-gods are deities indeed! Gape, earth, and this unhappy wretch entomb, Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come. Scarce had she finished, when her feet she found Benumbed with cold, and fastened to the ground; A filmy rind about her body grows, Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs; The nymph is all into a Laurel gone, The smoothness of her skin remains alone. Yet Phœbus loves her still, and, casting round Her bole his arms, some little warmth he found. The tree still panted in the unfinished part, Not wholly vegetive, and heaved her heart. He fixed his lips upon the trembling rind; It swerved aside, and his embrace declined. To whom the god: Because thou canst not be My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree: Be thou the prize of honour and renown; The deathless poet, and the poem, crown. Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn, And, after poets, be by victors worn; Thou shalt returning Cæsar's triumph grace, When pomps shall in a long procession pass; Wreathed on the post before his palace wait, And be the sacred guardian of the gate: Secure from thunder, and unharmed by Jove, Unfading as the immortal powers above; And as the locks of Phœbus are unshorn, So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.--