How yet more, ever more, with golden splendour she paled!Whenas yearning to mate his might with the furious monsterTheseus braved his death or sought the prizes of praises.Then of her gifts to gods not ingrate, nor profiting naught,Promise with silent lip, addressed she timidly vowing.For as an oak that shakes on topmost summit of TaurusIts boughs, or cone-growing pine from bole bark resin exuding,Whirlwind of passing might that twists the stems with its storm-blasts,Uproots, deracinates, forthright its trunk to the farthest,Prone falls, shattering wide what lies in line of its downfall,—Thus was that wildling flung by Theseus and vanquisht of body,Vainly tossing its horns and goring the wind to no purpose.Thence with abounding praise returned he, guiding his footsteps,While a fine drawn thread checked steps in wander abounding,Lest when issuing forth of the winding maze labyrinthineBaffled become his track by inobservable error.But for what cause should I, from early subject digressing,Tell of the daughter who the face of her sire unseeing,Eke her sister's embrace nor less her mother's endearments,Who in despair bewept her hapless child that so gladly