Now a long interval of time succeeds, When the great son of Jove’s immortal deeds, And stepdame’s hate, had fill’d earth’s utmost round, He from Oechalia, with new laurels crown’d, In triumph was return’d: he rites prepares, And to the king of gods directs his prayers: “When Fame (whom Falsehood clothes in Truth’s disguise, And swells her little bulk with growing lies) Thy tender ear, O Dejanira, moved, That Hercules the fair Iole loved.” Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears Of his new passion, and gives way to tears. The flowing tears diffused her wretched grief, “Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief?” She cries; “indulge not thus these fruitless cares, The harlot will but triumph in thy tears: Let something be resolved, while yet there’s time, My bed not conscious of a rival’s crime. In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain? Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain? What though allied to Meleager’s fame, I boast the honours of a sister’s name? My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue Some desp’rate deed, by which the world shall view