The word of "pious" heard, she blushed with shame Of secret guilt, and could not bear the name. 'Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close Our eyes, and sooth our cares with soft repose; But no repose could wretched Myrrha find, Her body rolling, as she rolled her mind: Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin, And wishes all her wishes o'er again: Now she despairs, and now resolves to try; Would not, and would again, she knows not why; Stops and returns, makes and retracts the vow; Fain would begin, but understands not how: As when a pine is hewn upon the plains, And the last mortal stroke alone remains, Labouring in pangs of death, and threatening all, This way and that she nods, considering where to fall; So Myrrha's mind, impelled on either side, Takes every bent, but cannot long abide: Irresolute on which she should rely, At last, unfixed in all, is only fixed to die. On that sad thought she rests; resolved on death, She rises, and prepares to choke her breath: Then while about the beam her zone she ties, Dear Cinyras, farewell, she softly cries; For thee I die, and only wish to be Not hated, when thou know'st I die for thee: Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause.-- This said, about her neck the noose she draws. The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard, Though not the words, the murmurs overheard, And sighs and hollow sounds; surprised with fright, She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a light; Unlocks the door, and, entering out of breath, The dying saw, and instruments of death. She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling haste, And in her arms her fainting charge embraced; Next (for she now had leisure for her tears) She weeping asked, in these her blooming years, What unforeseen misfortune caused her care, To loathe her life, and languish in despair The maid, with downcast eyes, and mute with grief, For death unfinished, and ill-timed relief, Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame pressed The more to know, and bared her withered breast; Adjured her, by the kindly food she drew From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew. Sad Myrrha sighed, and turned her eyes aside; The nurse still urged, and would not be denied; Nor only promised secrecy, but prayed She might have leave to give her offered aid. Good will, she said, my want of strength supplies, And diligence shall give what age denies. If strong desires thy mind to fury move, With charms and medicines I can cure thy love; If envious eyes their hurtful rays have cast, More powerful verse shall free thee from the blast; If heaven, offended, sends thee this disease, Offended heaven with prayers we can appease. What then remains, that can these cares procure? Thy house is flourishing; thy fortune sure;