“Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see His grateful thanks pour’d out for victory? His pious incense on my altars laid? But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid. Enraged, I vow’d, that with the youth the fair, For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share: That future lovers might my power revere, And, from their sad examples, learn to fear. The silent fanes, the sanctified abodes, Of Cybele, great mother of the gods, Raised by Echion in a lonely wood, And full of brown, religious horror stood: By a long painful Journey faint, they chose Their weary limbs here secret to repose. But soon my power inflamed the lustful boy; Careless of rest, he sought untimely joy. A hallow’d gloomy cave, with moss o’ergrown, The temple join’d, of native pumice stone, Where antique images by priests were kept, And wooden deities securely slept; Thither the rash Hippomenes retires, And gives a loose to all his wild desires, And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires. The sacred statues trembled with surprise;