25
But in what secret chamber their foul task
These soul-tormentors plied, or what their skill,
Pity of tender nature may not ask,
Nor poet stain his rhyme with such an ill.
But they at last themselves turn’d from their rack,
Weary of cruelty, and led her back,
Saying that further torture were to kill.
26
Then when the goddess saw her, more she mockt,