Swift to the mother’s ears the rumour came, And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim. With anger and surprise inflamed by turns, In furious rage her haughty stomach burns. First she disputes the effects of heavenly power; Then at their daring boldness wonders more; For poor Amphion, with sore grief distress’d, Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest, Had sheathed a dagger in his wretched breast: And she who toss’d her high disdainful head When through the streets, in solemn pomp, she led The throng that from Latona’s altar fled, Assuming state beyond the proudest queen, Was now the miserablest object seen: Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell, And kiss’d an undistinguish’d, last farewell; Then, her pale arms advancing to the skies, “Cruel Latona! triumph now,” she cries. “My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench, And with my woes your thirsty passion quench, Feast your black malice at a price thus dear, While the sore pangs of seven such deaths I bear. Triumph, too cruel rival, and display Your conquering standard, for you’ve won the day;