What caused her hate, the goddess thus confess’d, What caused her journey now was more than guess’d, That hate, relentless, its revenge did want, And that revenge the Furies soon could grant: They could the glory of proud Thebes efface, And hide in ruin the Cadmean race. For this she largely promises, entreats, And to entreaties adds imperial threats.

Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung, And from her mouth the untwisted serpents flung. “To gain this trifling boon, there is no need,” She cried, “in formal speeches to proceed. Whatever thou command’st to do is done; Believe it finish’d, though not yet begun. But from these melancholy seats repair To happier mansions, and to purer air.” She spoke. The goddess, darting upwards, flies, And joyous reascends her native skies: Nor enter’d there, till round her Iris threw Ambrosial sweets, and pour’d celestial dew.