And I have seen Hell’s cooks a feast prepare;
Spread couches with purple, and on gold-rests.
Then—dainties in view—as the famished guests
Seated themselves in hungry haste to sup,
The eldest Fury, screaming, started up
From where she lay, and, waving torch alight
Swept banquet, banqueters, into cold night.
On some the doom to push a mass up hill,
And, when it slips, as slip it ever will,
Still push; for some, e’en worse, the Wheel; and then—