Through the twelve signs had pass’d the circling sun, And round the compass of the zodiac run; What must unhappy Philomela do, For ever subject to her keeper’s view? Huge walls of massy stone the lodge surround, From her own mouth no way of speaking’s found. But all our wants by wit may be supplied, And art makes up what fortune has denied. With skill exact a Phrygian web she strung, Fix’d to a loom that in her chamber hung, Where inwrought letters, upon white display’d, In purple notes, her wretched case betray’d. The piece, when finish’d, secretly she gave Into the charge of one poor menial slave; And then, with gestures, made him understand It must be safe convey’d to Procne’s hand. The slave, with speed, the queen’s apartment sought, And render’d up his charge, unknowing what he brought. But when the ciphers, figured in each fold, Her sister’s melancholy story told, (Strange that she could!) with silence she survey’d The tragic piece, and without weeping read: In such tumultuous haste her passions sprung, They choked her voice, and quite disarm’d her tongue.