Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries, “Glut thy revenge, dread emp’ress of the skies; Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart, Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart. Or, if e’er pity moved a hostile breast (For here I stand thy enemy profess’d), Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn, Inured to trouble, and to labours born. Death is the gift most welcome to my wo, And such a gift a stepdame may bestow. Was it for this Busiris was subdued, Whose barbarous temples reek’d with strangers’ blood? Press’d in these arms his fate Antaeus found, Nor gain’d recruited vigour from the ground. Did I not triple-form’d Geryon fell? Or did I fear the triple dog of hell? Did not these hands the bull’s arm’d forehead hold? Are not our mighty toils in Elis told? Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame? And fair Parthenian woods resound thy name? Who seized the golden belt of Thermodon? And who the dragon-guarded apples won? Could the fierce centaur’s strength my force with stand,