Ixion too and Tityos smooth'dTheir rugged brows: the urn stood dryOne hour, while Danaus' maids were sooth'dWith minstrelsy.Let Lyde hear those maidens' guilt,Their famous doom, the ceaseless drainOf outpour'd water, ever spilt,And all the painReserved for sinners, e'en when dead:Those impious hands, (could crime do more?)Those impious hands had hearts to shedTheir bridegrooms' gore!One only, true to Hymen's flame,Was traitress to her sire forsworn:That splendid falsehood lights her nameThrough times unborn.“Wake!” to her youthful spouse she cried,“Wake! or you yet may sleep too well:Fly—from the father of your bride,Her sisters fell: