One labour more remains, and, though the last, In danger far surmounting all the past; That enterprise, by Fates, in store was kept, To make the dragon sleep, that never slept, Whose crest shoots dreadful lustre; from his jaws A triple tire of forked stings he draws, With fangs, and wings of a prodigious size: Such was the guardian of the golden prize. Yet him, besprinkled with Lethaean dew, The fair enchantress into slumber threw; And then, to fix him, thrice she did repeat The rhyme, that makes the raging winds retreat; In stormy seas can halcyon seasons make, Turn rapid streams into a standing lake; While the soft guest his drowsy eyelids seals, The unguarded golden fleece the stranger steals; Proud to possess the purchase of the toil, Proud of his royal bride, the richer spoil; To sea both prize and patroness he bore, And lands triumphant on his native shore.