Tereus beheld the virgin, and admired, And with the coals of burning love was fired; Like crackling stubble, or the summer hay, When forked lightnings o’er the meadows play. Such charms in any breast might kindle love, But him the heats of inbred passion move, To which, though Thrace is naturally prone, Yet his is still superior, and his own. Straight her attendants he designs to buy, And with large bribes her governess would try; Herself with ample gifts resolves to bend, And his whole kingdom in the attempt expend; Or, snatch’d away, by force of arms to bear, And justify the act with open war. The boundless passion boils within his breast, And his projecting soul admits no rest.

And now, impatient of the least delay, By pleading Procne’s cause, he speeds his way: The eloquence of love his tongue inspires, And, in his wife’s, he speaks his own desires; Hence all his importunities arise, And tears unmanly trickle from his eyes.