Chief in the riot Phineus first appear’d, The rash ringleader of this boist’rous herd, And brandishing his brazen-pointed lance, “Behold,” he said, “an injured man advance, Stung with resentment for his ravish’d wife; Nor shall thy wings, O Perseus, save thy life; Nor Jove himself, though we’ve been often told, Who got thee in the form of tempting gold.” His lance was aim’d, when Cepheus ran and said, “Hold! brother, hold! what brutal rage has made Your frantic mind so black a crime conceive? Are these the thanks that you to Perseus give? This the reward that to his worth you pay, Whose timely valour saved Andromeda? Nor was it he, if you would reason right, That forced her from you, but the jealous spite Of envious Nereids, and Jove’s high decree, And that devouring monster of the sea, That ready, with his jaws wide gaping, stood To eat my child, the fairest of my blood. You lost her then, when she seem’d past relief, And wish’d, perhaps, her death to ease your grief With my afflictions: not content to view Andromeda in chains, unhelp’d by you,