The grove destroy’d, the sister dryads moan, Grieved at its loss, and frighted at their own. Straight suppliants for revenge to Ceres go, In sable weeds, expressive of their wo.

The beauteous goddess with a graceful air Bow’d in consent, and nodded to their prayer. The awful motion shook the fruitful ground, And waved the fields with golden harvests crown’d. Soon she contrived in her projecting mind A plague severe, and piteous in its kind (If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height Could pity in the softest breast create); With pinching want, and hunger’s keenest smart, To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart. But since her near approach by Fate’s denied To Famine, and broad climes their powers divide, A nymph, the mountain’s ranger, she address’d, And, thus resolved, her high commands express’d.