The specious tale the unwary king betray’d. Fired with the hopes of prey, “Give quick,” he said, With soft enticing speech, “the promised store: Whate’er you give, you give to Polydore. Your son, by the immortal gods I swear, Shall this with all your former bounty share.” She stands attentive to his soothing lies, And darts avenging horror from her eyes; Then full resentment fires her boiling blood: She springs upon him, mid the captive crowd: (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies:) Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes; Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrues.