To the inmost courts the Grecian youths were led, And placed by Phocus on a Tyrian bed, Who, soon observing Cephalus to hold A dart of unknown wood, but arm’d with gold⁠— “None better loves,” said he, “the huntsman’s sport, Or does more often to the woods resort, Yet I that javelin’s stem with wonder view, Too brown for box, too smooth a grain for yew I cannot guess the tree; but never art Did form, or eyes behold, so fair a dart!” The guest then interrupts him:⁠—“ ’Twould produce Still greater wonder, if you knew its use: It never fails to strike the game, and then Comes bloody back into your hand again.” Then Phocus each particular desires, And the author of the wondrous gifts inquires; To which the owner thus, with weeping eyes, And sorrow for his wife’s sad fate, replies; “This weapon here, O prince! can you believe This dart the cause for which so much I grieve, And shall continue to grieve on, till Fate Afford such wretched life no longer date? Would I this fatal gift had ne’er enjoy’d; This fatal gift my tender wife destroy’d;