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Ovid - Metamorphoses: Book The Ninth
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                   And heard the hollow timbrels holy sound.
                   Thy words I noted, which I still retain;
                   Let not thy sacred oracles be vain.
                   That Iphis lives, that I myself am free
                   From shame, and punishment, I owe to thee.
                   On thy protection all our hopes depend.
                   Thy counsel sav`d us, let thy pow`r defend.
                     Her tears pursu`d her words; and while she spoke,
                   The Goddess nodded, and her altar shook:
                   The temple doors, as with a blast of wind,
                   Were heard to clap; the lunar horns that bind
                   The brows of Isis cast a blaze around;
                   The trembling timbrel made a murm`ring sound.
                     Some hopes these happy omens did impart;
                   Forth went the mother with a beating heart:
                   Not much in fear, nor fully satisfy`d;
                   But Iphis follow`d with a larger stride:
                   The whiteness of her skin forsook her face;
                   Her looks embolden`d with an awful grace;
                   Her features, and her strength together grew,
                   And her long hair to curling locks withdrew.
                   Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone,
                   Big was her voice, audacious was her tone.
                   The latent parts, at length reveal`d, began
                   To shoot, and spread, and burnish into man.
                   The maid becomes a youth; no more delay
                   Your vows, but look, and confidently pay.
                   Their gifts the parents to the temple bear:
                   The votive tables this inscription wear;
                   Iphis the man, has to the Goddess paid
                   The vows, that Iphis offer`d when a maid.
                     Now when the star of day had shewn his face,
                   Venus and Juno with their presence grace
                   The nuptial rites, and Hymen from above
                   Descending to compleat their happy love;
                   The Gods of marriage lend their mutual aid;
                   And the warm youth enjoys the lovely maid.

                              The End of the Ninth 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
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