The monarch ventures to his Procne’s sight; Loaded with guilt, and cloyed with long delight; There, with feign’d grief, and false dissembled sighs, Begins a formal narrative of lies; Her sister’s death he artfully declares, Then weeps, and raises credit from his tears. Her vest with flowers of gold embroider’d o’er, With grief distress’d, the mournful matron tore, And a beseeming suit of gloomy sable wore. With cost, an honorary tomb she raised, And thus the imaginary ghost appeased. Deluded queen! the fate of her you love, Nor grief, nor pity, but revenge, should move.