“ ‘ “Think not,” she cried, “to saunter out a life Of form, with that domestic drudge⁠—a wife; My just revenge, dull fool, ere long shall show What ills we women, if refused, can do. Think me a woman and a lover too. From dear successful spite we hope for ease, Nor fail to punish where we fail to please.”

“ ‘Now twice to east she turns, as oft to west; Thrice waves her wand, as oft a charm express’d. On the lost youth her magic power she tries, Aloft he springs, and wonders how he flies. On painted plumes the woods he seeks, and still The monarch oak he pierces with his bill. Thus changed, no more o’er Latian lands he reigns; Of Picus nothing but the name remains.

“ ‘The winds from drisling damps now purge the air, The mist subsides, the settling skies are fair; The court their sovereign seek with arms in hand; They threaten Circe, and their lord demand. Quick she invokes the spirits of the air, And twilight elves, that on dun wings repair To charnels, and the unhallow’d sepulchre.