“Are my reproaches of so small a force? ’Tis time I then pursue another course. It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die, If I’m indeed the mistress of the sky; If rightly styled, among the powers above, The wife and sister of the thundering Jove (And none can sure a sister’s right deny), It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die. She boasts an honour I can hardly claim, Pregnant she rises to a mother’s name; While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove, And shows the glorious tokens of his love: But if I’m still the mistress of the skies, By her own lover the fond beauty dies.” This said, descending in a yellow cloud, Before the gates of Semele she stood.