the two ensuing odes of Pindar; for that would not deserve half these words, as by this occasion to rectify the opinion of divers men upon this matter." CANACE TO MACAREUS. EPIST. XI. THE ARGUMENT. _Macareus and Canace, son and daughter to Æolus, God of the Winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a son, and committed him to her nurse, to be secretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Æolus, who, enraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild beasts on the mountains; and withal, sent a sword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this sword she slew herself; but before she died, she writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken sanctuary in the temple of Apollo._ If streaming blood my fatal letter stain, Imagine, ere you read, the writer slain; One hand the sword, and one the pen employs, And in my lap the ready paper lies. Think in this posture thou behold'st me write; In this my cruel father would delight. O! were he present, that his eyes and hands Might see, and urge the death which he commands! Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he, Unmoved, without a tear, my wounds would see. Jove justly placed him on a stormy throne, His people's temper is so like his own. The north and south, and each contending blast, Are underneath his wide dominion cast: Those he can rule; but his tempestuous mind Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfined. Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above, That in their number I can reckon Jove! What help will all my heavenly friends afford, When to my breast I lift the pointed sword? That hour, which joined us, came before its time; In death we had been one without a crime. Why did thy flames beyond a brother's move? Why loved I thee with more than sister's love? For I loved too; and, knowing not my wound, A secret pleasure in thy kisses found; My cheeks no longer did their colour boast, My food grew loathsome, and my strength I lost: Still ere I spoke, a sigh would stop my tongue; Short were my slumbers, and my nights were long. I knew not from my love these griefs did grow, Yet was, alas! the thing I did not know. My wily nurse, by long experience, found, And first discovered to my soul its wound. 'Tis love, said she; and then my downcast eyes, And guilty dumbness, witnessed my surprise. Forced at the last my shameful pain I tell; And oh, what followed, we both know too well! "When half denying, more than half content, Embraces warmed me to a full consent, Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat, And guilt, that made them anxious, made them great."[12] But now my swelling womb heaved up my breast, And rising weight my sinking limbs opprest.