Soon as the queen a fit retirement found, Stripp’d of the garlands that her temples crown’d, She straight unveil’d her blushing sister’s face, And fondly clasp’d her with a close embrace: But, in confusion lost, the unhappy maid, With shame dejected, hung her drooping head, As guilty of a crime that stain’d her sister’s bed. That speech, that should her injured virtue clear, And make her spotless innocence appear, Is now no more, only her hands and eyes Appeal, in signals, to the conscious skies. In Procne’s breast the rising passions boil, And burst in anger with a mad recoil; Her sister’s ill-timed grief with scorn she blames, Then, in these furious words, her rage proclaims: