(Once the poor god, now dead, implored his aid;
Who smote the fount and Bacchus’ thirst was stay’d.)
Seen in the distance, thundering as he came,
He look’d a god of most uncommon frame!
Poor Daphne shook to see his wondrous form:
Her noble blood began to mingle warm;
But pale and circumspect she did remain,
Impress’d with awe, her eyes straight to the plain
Upon th’ incumbent god,—whose time was come
To be removed into the dismal tomb.