The poem
NOW Glaucus, with a lover's haste, bounds o'er The swelling waves, and seeks the Latian shore. Messena, Rhegium, and the barren coast Of flaming Aetna, to his sight are lost: At length he gains the Tyrrhene seas, and views The hills where baneful philters Circe brews; Monsters, in various forms, around her press; As thus the God salutes the sorceress. The O Circe, be indulgent to my grief, Transformation And give a love-sick deity relief. of Scylla Too well the mighty pow'r of plants I know, To those my figure, and new Fate I owe. Against Messena, on th' Ausonian coast, I Scylla view'd, and from that hour was lost. In tend'rest sounds I su'd; but still the fair Was deaf to vows, and pityless to pray'r. If numbers can avail, exert their pow'r; Or energy of plants, if plants have more. I ask no cure; let but the virgin pine With dying pangs, or agonies, like mine. No longer Circe could her flame disguise, But to the suppliant God marine, replies: When maids are coy, have manlier aims in view; Leave those that fly, but those that like, pursue. If love can be by kind compliance won; See, at your feet, the daughter of the Sun. Sooner, said Glaucus, shall the ash remove From mountains, and the swelling surges love; Or humble sea-weed to the hills repair; E'er I think any but my Scylla fair. Strait Circe reddens with a guilty shame, And vows revenge for her rejected flame. Fierce liking oft a spight as fierce creates; For love refus'd, without aversion, hates. To hurt her hapless rival she proceeds; And, by the fall of Scylla, Glaucus bleeds. Some fascinating bev'rage now she brews; Compos'd of deadly drugs, and baneful juice. At Rhegium she arrives; the ocean braves, And treads with unwet feet the boiling waves. Upon the beach a winding bay there lies, Shelter'd from seas, and shaded from the skies: This station Scylla chose: a soft retreat From chilling winds, and raging Cancer's heat. The vengeful sorc'ress visits this recess; Her charm infuses, and infects the place. Soon as the nymph wades in, her nether parts Turn into dogs; then at her self she starts. A ghastly horror in her eyes appears; But yet she knows not, who it is she fears; In vain she offers from her self to run, And drags about her what she strives to shun. . The End of the Fourteenth 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