Metamorphoses

Book the First-4

Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there:

Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said,

Am much mistaken, or am much betray'd.

With fury she precipitates her flight:

Dispels the shadows of dissembled night;

And to the day restores his native light.

Th' Almighty Leacher, 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,

Ev'n Juno did unwilling pleasure take

To see so fair a rival of her love;

And what she was, and whence, enquir'd of Jove:

Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree?

The God, half caught, was forc'd upon a lye:

And said she sprung from Earth. She took the word,

And begg'd the beauteous heyfer 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, wou'd be

But more t' increase his consort's jealousie:

Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail'd;

And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail'd:

But some faint hope remain'd, his jealous queen

Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen.

The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest,

Yet harbour'd anxious thoughts within her breast;

As she who knew the falshood of her Jove;

And justly fear'd 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 compass'd round, and wore an hundred eyes.

But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;

The rest on duty still their station keep;

Nor cou'd the total constellation sleep.

Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind,

His charge was still before him, tho' behind.

In fields he suffer'd her to feed by Day,

But when the setting sun to night gave way,

The captive cow he summon'd with a call;

And drove her back, and ty'd her to the stall.

On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed,

Heav'n was her canopy, bare earth her bed:

So hardly lodg'd, and to digest her food,

She drank from troubled streams, defil'd with mud.

Her woeful story fain she wou'd have told,

With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.

Her head to her ungentle keeper bow'd,

She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low'd:

Affrighted with the noise, she look'd around,

And seem'd t' inquire the author of the sound.

Once on the banks where often she had play'd

(Her father's banks), she came, and there survey'd

Her alter'd visage, and her branching head;

And starting, from her self she wou'd have fled.

Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes,

Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.

Ev'n Inachus himself was ignorant;

And in his daughter, did his daughter want.

She follow'd where her fellows went, as she

Were still a partner of the company:

They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands,

And her neck offers to their stroaking hands.

Her father gave her grass; the grass she took;

And lick'd his palms, and cast a piteous look;

And in the language of her eyes, she spoke.

She wou'd have told her name, and ask'd relief,

But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief.

Which, with her foot she makes him understand;

And prints the name of Io in the sand.

Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry'd;

She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply'd:

About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw;

And wept, and then these tender words ensue.

And art thou she, whom I have sought around

The world, and have at length so sadly found?

So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words

Thou answer'st not, no voice thy tongue affords:

But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast;

And speech deny'd, by lowing is express'd.

Unknowing, I prepar'd thy bridal bed;

With empty hopes of happy issue fed.

But now the husband of a herd must be

Thy mate, and bell'wing sons thy progeny.

Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief:

But now my God-head but extends my grief:

Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,

And makes me curse my immortality!

More had he said, but fearful of her stay,

The starry guardian drove his charge away,

To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height

He sate himself, and kept her still in sight.

The Eyes of Argus transform'd into a Peacock's Train

Now Jove no longer cou'd her suff'rings bear;

But call'd in haste his airy messenger,

The son of Maia, with severe decree

To kill the keeper, and to set her free.

With all his harness soon the God was sped,

His flying hat was fastned on his head,

Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand

He holds the vertue of the snaky wand.

The liquid air his moving pinions wound,

And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground.

Before he came in sight, the crafty God

His wings dismiss'd, but still retain'd his rod:

That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took,

But made it seem to sight a sherpherd's hook.

With this, he did a herd of goats controul;

Which by the way he met, and slily stole.

Clad like a country swain, he pip'd, and sung;

And playing, drove his jolly troop along.

With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds;

But wonders much at those new vocal reeds.

And whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he,

Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me:

This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee.

The God, who was with ease induc'd to climb,

Began discourse to pass away the time;

And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies;

And watch'd his hour, to close the keeper's eyes.

With much ado, he partly kept awake;

Not suff'ring all his eyes repose to take:

And ask'd the stranger, who did reeds invent,

And whence began so rare an instrument?

The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds

Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was

Whose heav'nly form her fellows did surpass.

The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains,

Belov'd by deities, ador'd by swains:

Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu'd,

As oft she did the lustful Gods delude:

The rural, and the woodland Pow'rs disdain'd;

With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain'd:

Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe's self she seems,

So tall, so streight, such well-proportion'd limbs:

The nicest eye did no distinction know,

But that the goddess bore a golden bow:

Distinguish'd thus, the sight she cheated too.

Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires

The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires.

A crown of pine upon his head he wore;

And thus began her pity to implore.

But e'er he thus began, she took her flight

So swift, she was already out of sight.

Nor stay'd to hear the courtship of the God;

But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood:

There by the river stopt, and tir'd before;

Relief from water nymphs her pray'rs implore.

Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace,

Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace,

He fill'd his arms with reeds, new rising on the place.

And while he sighs, his ill success to find,

The tender canes were shaken by the wind;

And breath'd a mournful air, unheard before;

That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas'd him more.

Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said,

Who canst not be the partner of my bed,

At least shall be the confort of my mind:

And often, often to my lips be joyn'd.

He form'd the reeds, proportion'd as they are,

Unequal in their length, and wax'd with care,

They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.

While Hermes pip'd, and sung, and told his tale,

The keeper's winking eyes began to fail,

And drowsie slumber on the lids to creep;

'Till all the watchman was at length asleep.

Then soon the God his voice, and song supprest;

And with his pow'rful rod confirm'd his rest:

Without delay his crooked faulchion drew,

And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew.

Down from the rock fell the dissever'd head,

Opening its eyes in death; and falling, bled;

And mark'd the passage with a crimson trail:

Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold, and pale;

And all his hundred eyes, with all their light,

Are clos'd at once, in one perpetual night.

These Juno takes, that they no more may fail,

And spreads them in her peacock's gaudy tail.

Impatient to revenge her injur'd bed,

She wreaks her anger on her rival's head;

With Furies frights her from her native home;

And drives her gadding, round the world to roam:

Nor ceas'd her madness, and her flight, before

She touch'd the limits of the Pharian shore.

At length, arriving on the banks of Nile,

Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil,

She laid her down; and leaning on her knees,

Invok'd the cause of all her miseries:

And cast her languishing regards above,

For help from Heav'n, and her ungrateful Jove.

She sigh'd, she wept, she low'd; 'twas all she cou'd;

And with unkindness seem'd to tax the God.

Last, with an humble pray'r, she beg'd repose,

Or death at least, to finish all her woes.

Jove heard her vows, and with a flatt'ring look,

In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke,

He cast his arms about her neck, and said,

Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bed

This nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear,

And every oath that binds the Thunderer.

The Goddess was appeas'd; and at the word

Was Io to her former shape restor'd.

The rugged hair began to fall away;

The sweetness of her eyes did only stay,

Tho' not so large; her crooked horns decrease;

The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease:

Her hoofs to hands return, in little space:

The five long taper fingers take their place,

And nothing of the heyfer now is seen,

Beside the native whiteness of the skin.

Erected on her feet she walks again:

And two the duty of the four sustain.

She tries her tongue; her silence softly breaks,

And fears her former lowings when she speaks:

A Goddess now, through all th' Aegyptian State:

And serv'd by priests, who in white linnen wait.

Her son was Epaphus, at length believ'd

The son of Jove, and as a God receiv'd;

With sacrifice ador'd, and publick pray'rs,

He common temples with his mother shares.

Equal in years, and rival in renown

With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton

Like honour claims; and boasts his sire the sun.

His haughty looks, and his assuming air,

The son of Isis could no longer bear:

Thou tak'st thy mother's word too far, said he,

And hast usurp'd thy boasted pedigree.

Go, base pretender to a borrow'd name.

Thus tax'd, he blush'd with anger, and with shame;

But shame repress'd his rage: the daunted youth

Soon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth:

Mother, said he, this infamy was thrown

By Epaphus on you, and me your son.

He spoke in publick, told it to my face;

Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace:

Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong,

Restrain'd by shame, was forc'd to hold my tongue.

To hear an open slander, is a curse:

But not to find an answer, is a worse.

If I am Heav'n-begot, assert your son

By some sure sign; and make my father known,

To right my honour, and redeem your own.

He said, and saying cast his arms about

Her neck, and beg'd her to resolve the doubt.

'Tis hard to judge if Clymene were mov'd

More by his pray'r, whom she so dearly lov'd,

Or more with fury fir'd, to find her name

Traduc'd, and made the sport of common fame.

She stretch'd her arms to Heav'n, and fix'd her eyes

On that fair planet that adorns the skies;

Now by those beams, said she, whose holy fires

Consume my breast, and k****e my desires;

By him, who sees us both, and clears our sight,

By him, the publick minister of light,

I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lye,

Let him his chearful influence deny:

Let him no more this perjur'd creature see;

And shine on all the world but only me.

If still you doubt your mother's innocence,

His eastern mansion is not far from hence;

With little pains you to his Leve go,

And from himself your parentage may know.

With joy th' ambitious youth his mother heard,

And eager, for the journey soon prepar'd.

He longs the world beneath him to survey;

To guide the chariot; and to give the day:

From Meroe's burning sands he bends his course,

Nor less in India feels his father's force:

His travel urging, till he came in sight;

And saw the palace by the purple light.