“Now say, self-tortured nymph, can you compare Our griefs as equal, or in justice dare? I saw besides the darksome realms of wo, And bathed my wounds in smoking streams below. There I had stay’d, nor second life enjoy’d, But Paean’s son his wondrous art employ’d. To light restored, by medicinal skill, In spite of fate, and rigid Pluto’s will, The invidious object to preserve from view, A misty cloud around me Cynthia threw; And lest my sight should stir my foes to rage, She stamp’d my visage with the marks of age. My former hue was changed, and for it shown A set of features and a face unknown. A while the goddess stood in doubt, or Crete, Or Delos’ isle, to choose for my retreat. Delos and Crete refused, this wood she chose, Bade me my former luckless name depose, Which kept alive the memory of my woes; Then said, ‘Immortal life be thine, and thou, Hippolytus once call’d, be Virbius now.’ Here then a god, but of the inferior race, I serve my goddess, and attend her chase.”