“Perhaps thou mayst have heard a virgin’s name, Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o’ercame. Wondrous, that female weakness should outdo A manly strength; the wonder yet is true ’Twas doubtful if her triumphs in the field Did to her form’s triumphant glories yield; Whether her face could with more ease decoy A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy: For once Apollo she implored to show If courteous fates a consort would allow. ‘A consort brings thy ruin,’ he replied: ‘Oh learn to want the pleasures of a bride! Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost, And Atalanta living shall be lost.’ With such a rueful fate the affrighted maid Sought green recesses in the woodland glade; Nor signing suitors her resolves could move; She bade them show their speed, to show their love. He only who could conquer in the race Might hope the conquer’d virgin to embrace; While he whose tardy feet had lagg’d behind, Was doom’d the sad reward of death to find. Though great the prize, yet rigid the decree; But blind with beauty, who can rigour see?