Dost thou not drive thy sorrow hence and die?
And thy swift arrows, Phoebus3, what do they?
And thine unerring bow, Diana4? Slay
Her, ye avenging gods, if not in rage,
Then out of pity for her desolate age.
A punishment for pride before unknown
Hath fallen: Niobe is turned to stone,
And borne in whirlwind arms o’er seas and lands,
On Sipylus5 in deathless marble stands.
Yet from her living wounds a crystal fountain