But Clymene, enraged with grief, laments, And as her grief inspires her passion vents; Wild for her son, and frantic in her woes, With hair dishevell’d, round the world she goes To seek where’er his body might be cast, Till, on the borders of the Po, at last The name inscribed on the new tomb appears The dear, dear name she bathes in flowing tears, Hangs o’er the tomb, unable to depart, And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart.

Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn (A fruitless tribute to their brother’s urn), And beat their naked bosoms, and complain, And call aloud for Phaeton in vain; All the long night their mournful watch they keep, And all the day stand round the tomb and weep.