Now to a close apartment they were come, Far off retired within the spacious dome, When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent, Home to his heart a piercing poniard sent. Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late, Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate, Still at his mother’s neck he fondly aims, And strives to melt her with endearing names; Yet still the cruel mother perseveres, Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears. This might suffice; but Philomela too Across his throat a shining cutlass drew. Then both, with knives, dissect each quiv’ring part, And carve the butcher’d limbs with cruel art, Which, whelm’d in boiling cauldrons o’er the fire, Or, turn’d on spits, in steamy smoke aspire; While the long entries, with their slippery floor, Run down in purple streams of clotted gore.