Near Styx, Proserpina there I espied: Fear still with grief might in her face be seen; She still her loss laments: yet, made a queen, Beneath those gloomy shades her sceptre sways; And ev’n the infernal king her will obeys.”

This heard, the goddess like a statue stood, Stupid with grief, and in that musing mood Continued long; new cares a while suppress’d The reigning powers of her immortal breast. At last to Jove, her daughter’s sire, she flies, And with her chariot cuts the crystal skies: She comes in clouds, and with dishevell’d hair, Standing before his throne, prefers her prayer: