Enough of snow and hail at lastThe sire has sent in vengeance down:His bolts, at his own temple cast,Appall'd the town,Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's timeReturn, with all its monstrous sights,When Proteus led his flocks to climbThe flatten'd heights,When fish were in the elm-tops caught,Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,And does were floating, all distraught,Adown the tide.Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult backFrom mingling with the Etruscan main,Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrackAnd Vesta's fane.Roused by his Ilia's plaintive woes,He vows revenge for guiltless blood,And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows,Uxorious flood.