He, who had often, and alone, o'erturn'd
Witlings, and sophists, when his fury burn'd,
Now yields to love the fortress of his soul:
His eyes with vengeance on ARACHNE roll:
"Curs'd wretch, thou poisonous quintessence of ill,
" Those precious drops, unpunish'd, shalt thou spill? "
He said, and stooping, from his foot he drew,
Black as his purpose, what was once a shoe;
Now, high in air the fatal heel ascends,
Reason's last effort now the stroke suspends;
In doubt he stood — when, breath'd from Cloe's breast,
A struggling sigh her inward grief exprest.
Fir'd by the sound," Die, sorceress, die, "he cried,
And to his arm his utmost strength applied:
Crush'd falls the foe, one complicated wound,
And the smote shelf returns a jarring sound.