Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Of Orpheus murder’d, on the madding throng, Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand, Fix’d by the roots, along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran To wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound, Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground: And as the fowler, with his subtle gins, His feather’d captives by the feet entwines, That fluttering pant, and struggle to get loose, Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain To quit the place, they but increased their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controll’d; The root, though pliant, toughly keeps its hold. In vain their toes and feet they look to find, For even their shapely legs are clothed with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke, And finds the flesh transform’d to solid oak; Another, with surprise and grief distress’d, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast. A rugged bark their softer neck invades; Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades: