Her son was Epaphus, at length believed The son of Jove, and as a god received; With sacrifice adored, and public prayers, He common temples with his mother shares. Equal in years, and rival in renown, With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton Like honour claims, and boasts his sire the sun. His haughty looks, and his assuming air, The son of Isis could no longer bear. “Thou takest thy mother’s word too far,” said he, “And hast usurp’d thy boasted pedigree: Go, base pretender to a borrow’d name.” Thus tax’d, he blush’d with anger and with shame: But shame repressed his rage: the daunted youth Soon seeks his mother, and inquires the truth. “Mother,” said he, “this infamy was thrown By Epaphus on you, and me your son. He spoke in public, told it to my face, Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace: Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong, Restrain’d by shame, was forced to hold my tongue. To hear an open slander is a curse; But not to find an answer is a worse. If I am heaven-begot, assert your son,