The god dissolves in pity at her death; He hates the bird that made her falsehood known, And hates himself for what himself had done; The featherād shaft that sent her to the Fates, And his own hand that sent the shaft, he hates. Fain would he heal the wound and ease her pain, And tries the compass of his art in vain. Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire, The pile made ready, and the kindling fire, With sighs and groans her obsequies he kept, And, if a god could weep, the god had wept. Her corpse he kissād, and heavenly incense brought, And solemnized the death himself had wrought.
But lest his offspring should her fate partake, Spite of the immortal mixture in his make, He rippād her womb and set the child at large, And gave him to the centaur Chironās charge; Then in his fury blackād the raven oāer, And bade him prate in his white plumes no more.
Ocyrrhoe, the daughter of Chiron, is transformed into a mare, for abusing her gift of prophecy.