With that he takes her in his loving arms,
And down within a down-bed softly laid her;
Then on his knees he all his senses charms,
To invocate sweet Venus for to raise her 130
To wishèd life, and to infuse some breath
To that which, dead, yet gave a life to death.
“Thou sacred queen of sportive dallying”
(Thus he begins), “Love’s only emperess,
Whose kingdom rests in wanton revelling,
Let me beseech thee show thy powerfulness
In changing stone to flesh! Make her relent,
And kindly yield to thy sweet blandishment.
“O gracious goodess,[338] take compassion;
Instil into her some celestial fire, 140
That she may equalise affection,
And have a mutual love, and love’s desire!
Thou know’st the force of love, then pity me—
Compassionate my true love’s ardency.”
Thus having said, he riseth from the floor
As if his soul divinèd him good fortune,
Hoping his prayers to pity moved some power;
For all his thoughts did all good luck importune;
And therefore straight he strips him naked quite,
That in the bed he might have more delight. 150
Then thus, “Sweet sheets,” he says, “which now do cover
The idol of my soul, the fairest one
That ever loved, or had an amorous lover—
Earth’s only model of perfection—
Sweet happy sheets, deign for to take me in,
That I my hopes and longing thoughts may win!”
With that his nimble limbs do kiss the sheets,
And now he bows him for to lay him down;
And now each part with her fair parts do meet,
Now doth he hope for to enjoy love’s crown; 160
Now do they dally, kiss, embrace together,
Like Leda’s twins at sight of fairest weather.
Yet all’s conceit—but shadow of that bliss
Which now my muse strives sweetly to display
In this my wondrous Metamorphosis.
Deign to believe me—now I sadly[339] say—
The stony substance of his image feature
Was straight transform’d into a living creature!
For when his hands her fair-form’d limbs had felt,
And that his arms her naked waist embraced, 170
Each part like wax before the sun did melt,
And now, O now, he finds how he is graced
By his own work! Tut! women will relent
When as they find such moving blandishment.
Do but conceive a mother’s passing gladness
(After that death her only son had seized,
And overwhelm’d her soul with endless sadness)
When that she sees him ’gin for to be raised
From out his deadly swoun to life again:
Such joy Pygmalion feels in every vein. 180