Such was the hapless chance, most beautiful Laodamia,Tare fro' thee dearer than life, dearer than spirit itself,Him, that husband, whose love in so mighty a whirlpool of passionWhelmed thee absorbed and plunged deep in its gulfy abyss,E'en as the Grecians tell hard by Phenéus of CylléneDrained was the marish and dried, forming the fattest of soils,Whenas in days long done to delve through marrow of mountainsDaréd, falsing his sire, Amphtryóniades;What time sure of his shafts he smote Stymphalian monstersSlaying their host at the hest dealt by a lord of less worth,So might the gateway of Heaven be trodden by more of the godheads,Nor might Hébé abide longer to maidenhood doomed.Yet was the depth of thy love far deeper than deepest of marishWhich the hard mistress's yoke taught him so tamely to bear;Never was head so dear to a grandsire wasted by life-tideWhenas one daughter alone a grandson so tardy had reared,Who being found against hope to inherit riches of forbears