To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn’d to thefts and tricks his subtle thought: Possess’d he was of all his father’s slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire, The muses loved, and finely struck the lyre, And made his voice and touch in harmony conspire. In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth, The love of gods, and royal father’s worth, And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e’er prove a curse? To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana’s charms decried. Her taunts the goddess with resentment fill, ‘My face you like not, you shall try my skill.’ She said, and straight her vengeful bow she strung, And sent a shaft, that pierced her guilty tongue. The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries, In the red stream her soul reluctant flies. With sorrow wild I ran to her relief, And tried to moderate my brother’s grief; He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not entreat. When on the funeral pile he saw her laid,