The gen’rous king, although o’erjoy’d to find His son was safe, yet, bearing still in mind The mischief by his treach’rous queen design’d, The horror of the deed, and then how near The danger drew, lie stands congeal’d with fear. But soon that fear into devotion turns; With grateful incense ev’ry altar burns; Proud victims, and unconscious of their fate, Stalk to the temple, there to die in state. In Athens never had a day been found, For mirth, like that grand festival renown’d. Promiscuously the peers and people dine, Promiscuously their thankful voices join In songs of wit, sublimed by sprightly wine: To list’ning spheres their joint applause they raise, And thus resound their matchless Theseus’ praise: