II.
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake, The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake. Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above, Govern us Men, but govern still with Love, Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be, Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie. My Prayer not spoken out, One of the Winged Rout, With Indignation great, Sprung from his Airie-Seat, And mounting to a Higher Cloud, With Thunder, or a Voice as loud Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods, Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods! And in the Instant that the Thing was meant, He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent! I follow'd with my watchful Eye, To the Place where the Shaft did flie, But O unheard-of Prodigy. It was retorted back again, And he that sent it, felt the pain, Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain! But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found, And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.