Thus terribly incensed, the goddess broke
  To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke.
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     ’Are my reproaches of so small a force? 
  ’Tis time I then pursue another course: 
  It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die,
  If I’m indeed the mistress of the sky;
  If rightly styled among the powers above
  The wife and sister of the thundering Jove,
  (And none can sure a sister’s right deny,)
  It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die. 
  She boasts an honour I can hardly claim;
  Pregnant, she rises to a mother’s name;
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  While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove,
  And shows the glorious tokens of his love: 
  But if I’m still the mistress of the skies,
  By her own lover the fond beauty dies.’ 
  This said, descending in a yellow cloud,
  Before the gates of Semele she stood. 
     Old Beroe’s decrepit shape she wears,
  Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs;
  Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on,
  And learns to tattle in the nurse’s tone.
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  The goddess, thus disguised in age, beguiled
  With pleasing stories her false foster-child. 
  Much did she talk of love, and when she came
  To mention to the nymph her lover’s name,
  Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head,
  ‘’Tis well,’ says she, ’if all be true that’s said;
  But trust me, child, I’m much inclined to fear
  Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter. 
  Many an honest, well-designing maid,
  Has been by these pretended gods betrayed.
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  But if he be indeed the thundering Jove,
  Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love,
  Descend, triumphant from the ethereal sky,
  In all the pomp of his divinity;
  Encompassed round by those celestial charms,
  With which he fills the immortal Juno’s arms.’ 
     The unwary nymph, insnared with what she said,
  Desired of Jove, when next he sought her bed,
  To grant a certain gift which she would choose;
  ‘Fear not,’ replied the god, ’that I’ll refuse
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  Whate’er you ask:  may Styx confirm my voice,
  Choose what you will, and you shall have your choice.’ 
  ‘Then,’ says the nymph, ’when next you seek my arms,
  May you descend in those celestial charms,
  With which your Juno’s bosom you inflame,
  And fill with transport heaven’s immortal dame.’ 
  The god surprised, would fain have stopped her voice: 
  But he had swrorn, and she had made her choice. 
     To keep his promise he ascends, and shrouds
  His awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds;
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  Whilst all around, in terrible array,
  His thunders rattle, and his lightnings play. 
  And yet, the dazzling lustre to abate,
  He set not out in all his pomp and state,
  Clad in the mildest lightning of the skies,
  And armed with thunder of the smallest size: 
  Not those huge bolts, by which the giants