From all Crete's hundred Cities I am curit,
From that fam'd Ifle where Infant Jove was nurst.
Crete I betray'd for you, and, what's more dear,
Betray'd my Father, who that Crown does wear,
When to your Hands the fatal Clew I gave,
Which thro' the winding Lab'rinth led you fafe:
Then how you lov'd, how eagerly embrac'd!
How oft you swore, by all your Dangers past,
That with my Life your Love fhould ever laft!
Ah, perjur'd Thefeus, I thy Love furvive,
If one forfaken and expos'd does live.
Had you flain me, as you my Brother flew,
You'd then abfolv'd your felf from ev'ry Vow;
Now both my prefent Grief denies me Reft,
And all, that a wild Fancy can fuggeft
Of dreadful Ills to come, diftrafts my Breaft.
Before my Eyes a thousand Deaths appear,
I live, yet fuffer all the Deaths I fear.
Sometimes I think that Lions there do go,
And scarce dare truft my Sight, that 'tis not so.
Imagine that fierce Wolves are howling there,
And at the imagin'd Noise shrink up with Fear.
Then think what Monsters from the Sea may rife,
Or fancy bloody Swords before my Eyes.
But most I dread to be a Captive made,
And fee thefe Hands in fervile Works employ'd,
Unworthy my Extraction from a Line
On one fide Royal, and on both Divine:
And, (which my Indignation more would move,)
Unworthy her whom Thefeus, once did love.
If tow'rds the Sea I look, or tow'rds the Land, Objects of Horror ftill before me stand.
Nor dare I look tow'rds Heav'n, or hope to find
Aid from thofe Gods who chang'd my Thefeus' Mind.
If Beasts alone within this Iland stay,
Behold me left to them a helpless Prey!
If Men dwell here, they must be favage too;
This Soil, this Heav'n made gentle Thefeus fo.
Would Athens never had my Brother flain,
Nor for his paid fo many Lives again.
Would thy ftrong Arm had never giv'n the Wound,
Which ftruck the doubtful Monster to the Ground;
Nor I had giv'n the guiding Thread to thee,
Which, to my own Deftruction, fet thee free.
Let the unknowing World thy Conquest praife,
It does not Ariedne's Wonder raife:
So hard a Heart, unarm'd, might fafely fcorn
The Strength and Sharpness of the Monster's Horn.
If Flint or Steel could be fecure of Wound,
No room for Fear could in that Breaft be found.
Curft be the Sleep which feal'd thefe Eyes fo faft!
Curft, that begun, it did not ever last!
For ever curft be that officious Wind,
Which fill'd thy Sails, and in my Ruin join'd!,
Curft Hand, which me, and which my Brother kill'd!
(With what Misfortunes our fad Houfe 't has fill'd!)
And curft the Tongue, which with foft Words betray'd,
And empty Vows, a poor believing Maid!
Sleep and the Winds against me had combin'd
In vain, if perjur'd Thefeus had not join'd.
Poor Ariadne, thou must perish here,
Breathe out thy Soul in strange and hated Air,
Nor fee thy pitying Mother shed one Tear:
Want a kind Hand which thy fix'd Eyes may close,
And thy ftiff Limbs may decently compofe.
Thy Carcass to the Birds must be a Prey.
Thus Thefeus all thy Kindness does repay!
Mean while to Athens your swift Ship does run;
There tell the wondring Crowd what you have done :
How the mixt Prodigy you did fubdue;
The Beast and Man, how with one Stroke you flew.
Defcribe the Lab'rinth, and how, taught by me,
You 'fcap'd from all thofe perplex'd Mazes free.
Tell, in return, what gen'rous Things you've done :
Such Gratitude will all your Triumphs crown!
Sprung fure from Rocks, and not of human Race!
Thy Cruelty does thy great Line difgrace.
Yet couldft thou fee, as barb'rous as thou art,
These difmal Looks, fure they would touch thy Heart.
You cannot see, you think you faw me now
Fix'd to fome Rock, as if I there did grow,
And trembling at the Waves which roll below.
Look on my torn and my diforder'd Hairs,
Look on my Robe wet through with Show'rs of Tears.
With the cold Blafts fee my whole Body shakes,
And my numm'd Hand unequal Letters makes.
I do not urge my hated Merit now,
But yield, this once, that you do nothing owe.
I neither fav'd your Life, nor fet you free:
Yet therefore must you force this Death on me?
Ah! fee this wounded Breast worn out with Sighs,
And these faint Arms ftretch'd to the Seas and Skies,
See these few Hairs yet spar'd by Grief and Rage,
Some Pity let these flowing Tears engage.
Turn back, and, if I'm dead when you return,
Yet lay my Ashes in their peaceful Urn.
Hermione, the Daughter of Menelaus and Helena, was by Tyndarus ber Grandfather (to whom Menelaus had committed the Government of his House when he went to Troy) contracted to Oreftes. Her Father Menelaus, not knowing thereof, had betroth’d her to Pyrrhus, the Son of Achilles, who returning from the Trojan Wars, ftole her away. Whereupon She writes to Oreftes as follows.
HIS, dear Oreftes, this, with Health to you, From her that was your Wife and Coufin too; Your Coufin ftill, but oh! that dearer Name Of Wife, another now does falfely claim. What Woman can, I have already done, Yet I'm confin'd by rough Achilles' Son. With much of Pain, and all the Art I knew, I ftrove to fhun him, yet all would not do. Stand off, faid I, foul Ravifher take heed, My injur'd Husband will revenge this Deed; Yet he, more deaf than angry Tempests are, To his loath'd Chamber dragg'd me by the Hair.
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