Come, if ye're friends, and let these hands be bound,Which could with impious rage a mistress wound:What more did Ajax in his fury do,When all the sacred grazing herd he slew?Or heOrestes who spared not her who gave him breath?So ill the son reveng'd his father's death!Then I had broke the most religious ties,Both to my parents and the deities:I tore (0 heav'ns!) her finely braided hair,How charming then look'd the disorder'd fair.So Atalanta in her chaise is drawn,Where the Arcadian beasts her empire own:So Ariadne, left upon the shore,Does all alone her lost estate deplore.Who would not then have rail'd and talk'd aloud(Which to the helpless sex might be allowed.)She only did upbraid me with her eye,Whose speaking tears did want of words supply.0, that some merciful superior pow'rHad struck me lame before that fatal hour,