Ask’d by his wife to this inhuman feast, Tereus, unknowingly, is made a guest, While she, her plot the better to disguise, Styles it some unknown mystic sacrifice; And such the nature of the hallow’d rite, The wife her husband only could invite; The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarr’d the sight. Tereus, upon a throne of antique state, Loftily raised, before the banquet sate; And, glutton like, luxuriously pleased, With his own flesh his hungry maw appeased. Nay, such a blindness o’er his senses falls That he for Itys to the table calls. When Procne, now impatient to disclose The joy that from her full revenge arose, Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind, “Within yourself your Itys you may find.” Still at this puzzling answer, with surprise, Around the room he sends his curious eyes; And, as he still inquired, and call’d aloud, Fierce Philomela, all besmeared with blood, Her hands with murder stain’d, her spreading hair Hanging dishevell’d, with a ghastly air