Am much mistaken, or am much betrayed. With fury she precipitates her flight, } Dispels the shadows of dissembled night, } And to the day restores his native light. } The almighty lecher, careful to prevent The consequence, foreseeing her descent, Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now, In Io's place, appears a lovely cow. So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make, Even Juno did unwilling pleasure take To see so fair a rival of her love; And what she was, and whence, enquired of Jove, Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree? The god, half-caught, was forced upon a lie, And said she sprung from earth. She took the word, And begged the beauteous heifer of her lord. What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove, Or to relinquish, or betray his love; Yet to refuse so slight a gift, would be But more to increase his consort's jealousy. Thus fear, and love, by turns his heart assailed; And stronger love had sure at length prevailed, But some faint hope remained, his jealous queen Had not the mistress through the heifer seen. The cautious goddess, of her gift possest, Yet harboured anxious thoughts within her breast; As she, who knew the falsehood of her Jove, And justly feared some new relapse of love; Which to prevent, and to secure her care, To trusty Argus she commits the fair. The head of Argus (as with stars the skies,) Was compassed round, and wore an hundred eyes. But two by turns their lids in slumber steep; } The rest on duty still their station keep; } Nor could the total constellation sleep. } Thus, ever present to his eyes and mind, His charge was still before him, though behind. In fields he suffered her to feed by day; But, when the setting sun to night gave way, The captive cow he summoned with a call, And drove her back, and tied her to the stall. On leaves of trees and bitter herbs she fed, Heaven was her canopy, bare earth her bed, So hardly lodged; and, to digest her food, She drank from troubled streams, defiled with mud. Her woeful story fain she would have told, With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold. Her head to her ungentle keeper bowed, She strove to speak; she spoke not, but she lowed; Affrighted with the noise, she looked around, And seemed to inquire the author of the sound. Once on the banks where often she had played, (Her father's banks,) she came, and there surveyed Her altered visage, and her branching head; And starting from herself, she would have fled. Her fellow-nymphs, familiar to her eyes, Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise. Even Inachus himself was ignorant; And in his daughter, did his daughter want. She followed where her fellows went, as she