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Ovid - Metamorphose
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                   With leaves, and bark she feeds her infant fire:
                   It smoaks; and then with trembling breath she
                       blows,
                   `Till in a chearful blaze the flames arose.
                   With brush-wood, and with chips she strengthens
                       these,
                   And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees.
                   The fire thus form`d, she sets the kettle on
                   (Like burnish`d gold the little seether shone),
                   Next took the coleworts which her husband got
                   From his own ground (a small well-water`d spot);
                   She stripp`d the stalks of all their leaves; the
                       best
                   She cull`d, and them with handy care she drest.
                   High o`er the hearth a chine of bacon hung;
                   Good old Philemon seiz`d it with a prong,
                   And from the sooty rafter drew it down,
                   Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one;
                   Yet a large portion of a little store,
                   Which for their sakes alone he wish`d were more.
                   This in the pot he plung`d without delay,
                   To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away.
                   The time beween, before the fire they sat,
                   And shorten`d the delay by pleasing chat.
                     A beam there was, on which a beechen pail
                   Hung by the handle, on a driven nail:
                   This fill`d with water, gently warm`d, they set
                   Before their guests; in this they bath`d their
                       feet,
                   And after with clean towels dry`d their sweat.
                   This done, the host produc`d the genial bed,
                   Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted,
                   Which with no costly coverlet they spread,
                   But coarse old garments; yet such robes as these
                   They laid alone, at feasts, on holidays.
                   The good old housewife, tucking up her gown,
                   The table sets; th` invited Gods lie down.
                   The trivet-table of a foot was lame,
                   A blot which prudent Baucis overcame,
                   Who thrusts beneath the limping leg a sherd,
                   So was the mended board exactly rear`d:
                   Then rubb`d it o`er with newly gather`d mint,
                   A wholsom herb, that breath`d a grateful scent.
                   Pallas began the feast, where first was seen
                   The party-colour`d olive, black, and green:
                   Autumnal cornels next in order serv`d,
                   In lees of wine well pickled, and preserv`d.
                   A garden-sallad was the third supply,
                   Of endive, radishes, and succory:
                   Then curds, and cream, the flow`r of country fare,
                   And new-laid eggs, which Baucis` busie care
                   Turn`d by a gentle fire, and roasted rare.
                   All these in earthen ware were serv`d to board;
                   And next in place, an earthen pitcher stor`d,
                   With liquor of the best the cottage could afford.
                   This was the table`s ornament and pride,
                   With figures wrought: like pages at his side
                   Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean,
                   Varnish`d with wax without, and lin`d within.
                   By this the boiling kettle had prepar`d,
                   And to the table sent the smoaking lard;
                   On which with eager appetite they dine,
                   A sav`ry bit, that serv`d to relish wine:
                   The wine itself was suiting to the rest,
                   Still working in the must, and lately press`d.
                   The second course succeeds like that before,
                   Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store
                   Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set
                   In canisters, t` enlarge the little treat:
                   All these a milk-white honey-comb surround,
                   Which in the midst the country-banquet crown`d:
                   But the kind hosts their entertainment grace
                   With hearty welcome, and an open face:
                   In all they did, you might discern with ease,
                   A willing mind, and a desire to please.
                     Mean-time the beechen bowls went round, and
                       still,
                   Though often empty`d, were observ`d to fill;
                   Fill`d without hands, and of their own accord
                   Ran without feet, and danc`d about the board.
                   Devotion seiz`d the pair, to see the feast
                   With wine, and of no common grape, increas`d;
                   And up they held their hands, and fell to pray`r,
                   Excusing, as they could, their country fare.
                     One goose they had (`twas all they could allow),
                   A wakeful centry, and on duty now,
                   Whom to the Gods for sacrifice they vow:
                   Her with malicious zeal the couple view`d;
                   She ran for life, and limping they pursu`d:
                   Full well the fowl perceiv`d their bad intent,
                   And would not make her master`s compliment;
                   But persecuted, to the Pow`rs she flies,
                   And close between the legs of Jove she lies:
                   He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard,
                   And sav`d her life; then what he has declar`d,
                   And own`d the God. The neighbourhood, said he,
                   Shall justly perish for impiety:
                   You stand alone exempted; but obey
                   With speed, and follow where we lead the way:
                   Leave these accurs`d; and to the mountain`s height
                   Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight.
                     They haste, and what their tardy feet deny`d,
                   The trusty staff (their better leg) supply`d.
                   An arrow`s flight they wanted to the top,
                   And there secure, but spent with travel, stop;
                   Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes;
                   Lost in a lake the floated level lies:
                   A watry desart covers all the plains,
                   Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains.
                   Wondring, with weeping eyes, while they deplore
                   Their neighbours` fate, and country now no more,
                   Their little shed, scarce large enough for two,
                   Seems, from the ground increas`d, in height and
                       bulk to grow.
                   A stately temple shoots within the skies,
                   The crotches of their cot in columns rise:
                   The pavement polish`d marble they behold,
                   The gates with sculpture grac`d, the spires and
                       tiles of gold.
                     Then thus the sire of Gods, with looks serene,
                   Speak thy desire, thou only just of men;
                   And thou, o woman, only worthy found
                   To be with such a man in marriage bound.
                     A-while they whisper; then, to Jove address`d,
                   Philemon thus prefers their joint request:
                   We crave to serve before your sacred shrine,
                   And offer at your altars rites divine:
                   And since not any action of our life
                   Has been polluted with domestick strife;
                   We beg one hour of death, that neither she
                   With widow`s tears may live to bury me,
                   Nor weeping I, with wither`d arms may bear
                   My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher.
                     The Godheads sign their suit. They run their race
                   In the same tenour all th` appointed space:
                   Then, when their hour was come, while they relate
                   These past adventures at the temple gate,
                   Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen
                   Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green:
                   Old Baucis look`d where old Philemon stood,
                   And saw his lengthen`d arms a sprouting wood:
                   New roots their fasten`d feet begin to bind,
                   Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind:
                   Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew,
                   They give, and take at once their last adieu.
                   At once, Farewell, o faithful spouse, they said;
                   At once th` incroaching rinds their closing lips
                       invade.
                   Ev`n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows
                   A spreading oak, that near a linden grows;
                   The neighbourhood confirm the prodigy,
                   Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie.
                   I saw my self the garlands on their boughs,
                   And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows;
                   And off`ring fresher up, with pious pray`r,
                   The good, said I, are God`s peculiar care,
                   And such as honour Heav`n, shall heav`nly honour
                       share.
  The Changes of     He ceas`d in his relation to proceed,
      Proteus      Whilst all admir`d the author, and the deed;
                   But Theseus most, inquisitive to know
                   From Gods what wondrous alterations grow.
                   Whom thus the Calydonian stream address`d,
                   Rais`d high to speak, the couch his elbow press`d.
                   Some, when transform`d, fix in the lasting change;
                   Some with more right, thro` various figures range.
                   Proteus, thus large thy privilege was found,
                   Thou inmate of the seas, which Earth surround.
                   Sometimes a bloming youth you grac`d the shore;
                   Oft a fierce lion, or a furious boar:
                   With glist`ning spires now seem`d an hissing snake,
                   The bold would tremble in his hands to take:
                   With horns assum`d a bull; sometimes you prov`d
                   A tree by roots, a stone by weight unmov`d:
                   Sometimes two wav`ring contraries became,
                   Flow`d down in water, or aspir`d in flame.
   The Story of      In various shapes thus to deceive the eyes,
    Erisichthon    Without a settled stint of her disguise,
                   Rash Erisichthon`s daughter had the pow`r,
                   And brought it to Autolicus in dow`r.
                   Her atheist sire the slighted Gods defy`d,
                   And ritual honours to their shrines deny`d.
                   As fame reports, his hand an ax sustain`d,
                   Which Ceres` consecrated grove prophan`d;
                   Which durst the venerable gloom invade,
                   And violate with light the awful shade.
                   An ancient oak in the dark center stood,
                   The covert`s glory, and itself a wood:
                   Garlands embrac`d its shaft, and from the boughs
                   Hung tablets, monuments of prosp`rous vows.
                   In the cool dusk its unpierc`d verdure spread,
                   The Dryads oft their hallow`d dances led;
                   And oft, when round their gaging arms they cast,
                   Full fifteen ells it measu`rd in the waste:
                   Its height all under standards did surpass,
                   As they aspir`d above the humbler grass.
                     These motives, which would gentler minds
                       restrain,
                   Could not make Triope`s bold son abstain;
                   He sternly charg`d his slaves with strict decree,
                   To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree.
                   But whilst they, lingring, his commands delay`d,
                   He snatch`d an Ax, and thus blaspheming said:
                   Was this no oak, nor Ceres` favourite care,
                   But Ceres` self, this arm, unaw`d, shou`d dare
                   Its leafy honours in the dust to spread,
                   And level with the earth its airy head.
                   He spoke, and as he poiz`d a slanting stroak,
                   Sighs heav`d, and tremblings shook the frighted
                       oak;
                   Its leaves look`d sickly, pale its acorns grew,
                   And its long branches sweat a chilly dew.
                   But when his impious hand a wound bestow`d,
                   Blood from the mangled bark in currents flow`d.
                   When a devoted bull of mighty size,
                   A sinning nation`s grand atonement, dies;
                   With such a plenty from the spouting veins,
                   A crimson stream the turfy altars stains.
                     The wonder all amaz`d; yet one more bold,
                   The fact dissuading, strove his ax to hold.
                   But the Thessalian, obstinately bent,
                   Too proud to change, too harden`d to repent,
                   On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn`d
                   With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn`d;
                   Take the reward, says he, of pious dread:
                   Then with a blow lopp`d off his parted head.
                   No longer check`d, the wretch his crime pursu`d,
                   Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew`d;
                   When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard,
                   A Dryad I, by Ceres` love preferr`d,
                   Within the circle of this clasping rind
                   Coeval grew, and now in ruin join`d;
                   But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue,
                   And death is chear`d with this prophetick view.
                     At last the oak with cords enforc`d to bow,
                   Strain`d from the top, and sap`d with wounds below,
                   The humbler wood, partaker of its fate,
                   Crush`d with its fall, and shiver`d with its
                       weight.
                     The grove destroy`d, the sister Dryads moan,
                   Griev`d at its loss, and frighted at their own.
                   Strait, suppliants for revenge to Ceres go,
                   In sable weeds, expressive of their woe.
                     The beauteous Goddess with a graceful air
                   Bow`d in consent, and nodded to their pray`r.
                   The awful motion shook the fruitful ground,
                   And wav`d the fields with golden harvests crown`d.
                   Soon she contriv`d in her projecting mind
                   A plague severe, and piteous in its kind
                   (If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height
                   Could pity in the softest breast create).
                   With pinching want, and hunger`s keenest smart,
                   To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart.
                   But since her near approach by Fate`s deny`d
                   To famine, and broad climes their pow`rs divide,
                   A nymph, the mountain`s ranger, she address`d,
                   And thus resolv`d, her high commands express`d.
  The Description    Where frozen Scythia`s utmost bound is plac`d,
     of Famine     A desart lies, a melancholy waste:
                   In yellow crops there Nature never smil`d,
                   No fruitful tree to shade the barren wild.
                   There sluggish cold its icy station makes,
                   There paleness, frights, and aguish trembling
                       shakes,
                   Of pining famine this the fated seat,
                   To whom my orders in these words repeat:
                   Bid her this miscreant with her sharpest pains
                   Chastise, and sheath herself into his veins;
                   Be unsubdu`d by plenty`s baffled store,
                   Reject my empire, and defeat my pow`r.
                   And lest the distance, and the tedious way,
                   Should with the toil, and long fatigue dismay,
                   Ascend my chariot, and convey`d on high,
                   Guide the rein`d dragons thro` the parting sky.
                     The nymph, accepting of the granted carr,
                   Sprung to the seat, and posted thro` the air;
                   Nor stop`d `till she to a bleak mountain came
                   Of wondrous height, and Caucasus its name.
                   There in a stony field the fiend she found,
                   Herbs gnawing, and roots scratching from the
                       ground.
                   Her elfelock hair in matted tresses grew,
                   Sunk were her eyes, and pale her ghastly hue,
                   Wan were her lips, and foul with clammy glew.
                   Her throat was furr`d, her guts appear`d within
                   With snaky crawlings thro` her parchment skin.
                   Her jutting hips seem`d starting from their place,
                   And for a belly was a belly`s space,
                   Her dugs hung dangling from her craggy spine,
                   Loose to her breast, and fasten`d to her chine.
                   Her joints protuberant by leanness grown,
                   Consumption sunk the flesh, and rais`d the bone.
                   Her knees large orbits bunch`d to monstrous size,
                   And ancles to undue proportion rise.
                     This plague the nymph, not daring to draw near,
                   At distance hail`d, and greeted from afar.
                   And tho` she told her charge without delay,
                   Tho` her arrival late, and short her stay,
                   She felt keen famine, or she seem`d to feel,
                   Invade her blood, and on her vitals steal.
                   She turn`d, from the infection to remove,
                   And back to Thessaly the serpents drove.
                     The fiend obey`d the Goddess` command
                   (Tho` their effects in opposition stand),
                   She cut her way, supported by the wind,
                   And reach`d the mansion by the nymph assign`d.
                     `Twas night, when entring Erisichthon`s room,
                   Dissolv`d in sleep, and thoughtless of his doom,
                   She clasp`d his limbs, by impious labour tir`d,
                   With battish wings, but her whole self inspir`d;
                   Breath`d on his throat and chest a tainting blast,
                   And in his veins infus`d an endless fast.
                     The task dispatch`d, away the Fury flies
                   From plenteous regions, and from rip`ning skies;
                   To her old barren north she wings her speed,
                   And cottages distress`d with pinching need.
                     Still slumbers Erisichthon`s senses drown,
                   And sooth his fancy with their softest down.
                   He dreams of viands delicate to eat,
                   And revels on imaginary meat,
                   Chaws with his working mouth, but chaws in vain,
                   And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain;
                   Deludes his throat with visionary fare,
                   Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air.
                     The morning came, the night, and slumbers past,
                   But still the furious pangs of hunger last;
                   The cank`rous rage still gnaws with griping pains,
                   Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns.
                     Strait he requires, impatient in demand,
                   Provisions from the air, the seas, the land.
                   But tho` the land, air, seas, provisions grant,
                   Starves at full tables, and complains of want.
                   What to a people might in dole be paid,
                   Or victual cities for a long blockade,
                   Could not one wolfish appetite asswage;
                   For glutting nourishment increas`d its rage.
                   As rivers pour`d from ev`ry distant shore,
                   The sea insatiate drinks, and thirsts for more;
                   Or as the fire, which all materials burns,
                   And wasted forests into ashes turns,
                   Grows more voracious, as the more it preys,
                   Recruits dilate the flame, and spread the blaze:
                   So impious Erisichthon`s hunger raves,
                   Receives refreshments, and refreshments craves.
                   Food raises a desire for food, and meat
                   Is but a new provocative to eat.
                   He grows more empty, as the more supply`d,
                   And endless cramming but extends the void.
        The          Now riches hoarded by paternal care
  Transformations  Were sunk, the glutton swallowing up the heir.
        of         Yet the devouring flame no stores abate,
   Erisichthon`s   Nor less his hunger grew with his estate.
     Daughter      One daughter left, as left his keen desire,
                   A daughter worthy of a better sire:
                   Her too he sold, spent Nature to sustain;
                   She scorn`d a lord with generous disdain,
                   And flying, spread her hand upon the main.
                   Then pray`d: Grant, thou, I bondage may escape,
                   And with my liberty reward thy rape;
                   Repay my virgin treasure with thy aid
                   (`Twas Neptune who deflower`d the beauteous maid).
                     The God was mov`d, at what the fair had su`d,
                   When she so lately by her master view`d
                   In her known figure, on a sudden took
                   A fisher`s habit, and a manly look.
                   To whom her owner hasted to enquire;
                   O thou, said he, whose baits hide treach`rous wire;
                   Whose art can manage, and experienc`d skill
                   The taper angle, and the bobbing quill,
                   So may the sea be ruffled with no storm,
                   But smooth with calms, as you the truth inform;
                   So your deceit may no shy fishes feel,
                   `Till struck, and fasten`d on the bearded steel.
                   Did not you standing view upon the strand,
                   A wand`ring maid? I`m sure I saw her stand;
                   Her hair disorder`d, and her homely dress
                   Betray`d her want, and witness`d her distress.
                     Me heedless, she reply`d, whoe`er you are,
                   Excuse, attentive to another care.
                   I settled on the deep my steady eye;
                   Fix`d on my float, and bent on my employ.
                   And that you may not doubt what I impart,
                   So may the ocean`s God assist my art,
                   If on the beach since I my sport pursu`d,
                   Or man, or woman but my self I view`d.
                   Back o`er the sands, deluded, he withdrew,
                   Whilst she for her old form put off her new.
                     Her sire her shifting pow`r to change perceiv`d;
                   And various chapmen by her sale deceiv`d.
                   A fowl with spangled plumes, a brinded steer,
                   Sometimes a crested mare, or antler`d deer:
                   Sold for a price, she parted, to maintain
                   Her starving parent with dishonest gain.
                     At last all means, as all provisions, fail`d;
                   For the disease by remedies prevail`d;
                   His muscles with a furious bite he tore,
                   Gorg`d his own tatter`d flesh, and gulph`d his
                       gore.
                   Wounds were his feast, his life to life a prey,
                   Supporting Nature by its own decay.
                     But foreign stories why shou`d I relate?
                   I too my self can to new forms translate,
                   Tho` the variety`s not unconfin`d,
                   But fix`d, in number, and restrain`d in kind:
                   For often I this present shape retain,
                   Oft curl a snake the volumes of my train.
                   Sometimes my strength into my horns transfer`d,
                   A bull I march, the captain of the herd.
                   But whilst I once those goring weapons wore,
                   Vast wresting force one from my forehead tore.
                   Lo, my maim`d brows the injury still own;
                   He ceas`d; his words concluding with a groan.

                              The End of the Eighth Book.
                             
                             
                Translated into English verse under the direction of
                Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
                William Congreve and other eminent hands
Source
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