Thus, in the fury of the god conceal’d, Procne her own mad headstrong passion veil’d: Now, with her gang, to the thick wood she flies, And with religious yellings fills the skies: The fatal lodge, as ’twere by chance, she seeks, And through the bolted doors an entrance breaks. From thence, her sister snatching by the hand, Mask’d like the ranting Bacchanalian band, Within the limits of the court she drew, Shading, with ivy green, her outward hue. But Philomela, conscious of the place, Felt new reviving pangs of her disgrace; A shiv’ring cold prevail’d in ev’ry part, And the chill’d blood ran trembling to her heart.