Once, in the woods, as he pursued the chase, The babbling Echo had descried his face, She, who in other words her silence breaks, Nor speaks herself but when another speaks. Echo was then a maid of speech bereft, Of wonted speech; for though her voice was left, Juno a curse did on her tongue impose, To sport with every sentence in the close. Full often when the goddess might have caught Jove and her rivals in the very fault, This nymph with subtle stories would delay Her coming, till the lovers slipp’d away. The goddess found out the deceit in time, And then she cried, “That tongue, for this thy crime, Which could so many subtle tales produce, Shall be hereafter but of little use.” Hence ’tis she prattles in a fairer tone, With mimic sounds and accents not her own.