The rope shall end our toils; and we,
Beneath the ground, shall fare to thee,
Thou many-guested Jove,[f11]
To thee our suppliant boughs we’ll spread,
Thou Saviour of the weary Dead,
Far from the shining thrones of blissful gods above.
Ah, Jove too well we know
What wrath divine scourged ancient Io, wailing
Beneath thy consort’s anger heaven-scaling;
And even so,