The mark of ev'ry age's curse has stood;And Atys, murder'd by his mothers rage,Been pitied since by each succeeding age;Thy cruel parents by false lords abus'd,Had yet some plea, tho' none their crime excus'd.What, Jason, did your dire revenge provoke?What, Tereus, urge you to the fatal stroke?What rage your reason led so far away,As furious hands upon yourself to lay?The tigresses that haunt th' Armenian wood,Will spare their proper young, though pinch'd for food;Nor will the Libyan lionesses slayTheir whelps,—but woman are more fierce than they;More barb'rous to the tender fruit they bear,Nor nature's call, tho' loud she cries, will hear.