Nor were the gods themselves more safe above, Against beleaguer’d heaven the giants move, Hills piled on hills, on mountains mountains lie, To make their mad approaches to the sky; Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time To avenge with thunder their audacious crime. Red lightning play’d along the firmament, And their demolish’d works to pieces rent. Singed with the flames, and with the bolts transfix’d. With native earth their blood the monsters mix’d. The blood, indued with animating heat, Did, in the impregnant earth, new sons beget. They, like the seed from which they sprung, accursed, Against the gods immortal hatred nursed; An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood, Expressing their original from blood.

Which, when the king of gods beheld from high (Withal revolving in his memory What he himself had found on earth of late, Lycaon’s guilt, and his inhuman treat), He sigh’d, nor longer with his pity strove, But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove.