Ok, so the following is from Ovids Metamorphoses - a long, old poem, but for those who dont know the story of Tereus, youre in for a freaky treat... As you may already know, Shakespeare got much of his ideas from Metamorphoses - especially many of the more gruesome parts, like those in Titus Andronicus - what a movie by Anthony Hopkins!!! Enjoy!... For anyone who does persist, or for those who know the story, please comment below (without giving away the ending). The Story of Tereus, Procne, and Philomela To Thebes the neighbring princes all repair, And with condolance the misfortune share. Each bordring state in solemn form addressd, And each betimes a friendly grief expressd. Argos, with Spartas, and Mycenaes towns, And Calydon, yet free from fierce Dianas frowns. Corinth for finest brass well famd of old, Orthomenos for men of courage bold: Cleonae lying in the lowly dale, And rich Messene with its fertile vale: Pylos, for Nestors City after famd, And Troezen, not as yet from Pittheus namd. And those fair cities, which are hemd around By double seas within the Isthmian ground; And those, which farther from the sea-coast stand, Lodgd in the bosom of the spacious land. Who can believe it? Athens was the last: Tho for politeness famd for ages past. For a strait siege, which then their walls enclosd, Such acts of kind humanity opposd: And thick with ships, from foreign nations bound, Sea-ward their city lay invested round. These, with auxiliar forces led from far, Tereus of Thrace, brave, and inurd to war, Had quite defeated, and obtaind a name, The warriors due, among the sons of Fame. This, with his wealth, and powr, and ancient line, From Mars derivd, Pandionss thoughts incline His daughter Procne with the prince to joyn. Nor Hymen, nor the Graces here preside, Nor Juno to befriend the blooming bride; But Fiends with funral brands the process led, And Furies waited at the Genial bed: And all night long the scrieching owl aloof, With baleful notes, sate brooding oer the roof. With such ill Omens was the match begun, That made them parents of a hopeful son. Now Thrace congratulates their seeming joy, And they, in thankful rites, their minds employ. If the fair queens espousals pleasd before, Itys, the new-born prince, now pleases more; And each bright day, the birth, and bridal feast, Were kept with hallowd pomp above the rest. So far true happiness may lye conceald, When, by false lights, we fancy tis reveald! Now, since their nuptials, had the golden sun Five courses round his ample zodiac run; When gentle Procne thus her lord addressd, And spoke the secret wishes of her breast: If I, she said, have ever favour found, Let my petition with success be crownd: Let me at Athens my dear sister see, Or let her come to Thrace, and visit me. And, lest my father should her absence mourn, Promise that she shall make a quick return. With thanks Id own the obligation due Only, o Tereus, to the Gods, and you. Now, plyd with oar, and sail at his command, The nimble gallies reachd th Athenian land, And anchord in the famd Piraean bay, While Tereus to the palace takes his way; The king salutes, and ceremonies past, Begins the fatal embassy at last; The occasion of his voyage he declares, And, with his own, his wifes request prefers: Asks leave that, only for a little space, Their lovely sister might embark for Thrace. Thus while he spoke, appeard the royal maid, Bright Philomela, splendidly arrayd; But most attractive in her charming face, And comely person, turnd with evry grace: Like those fair Nymphs, that are describd to rove Across the glades, and opnings of the grove; Only that these are dressd for silvan sports, And less become the finery of courts. Tereus beheld the virgin, and admird, And with the coals of burning lust was fird: Like crackling stubble, or the summer hay, When forked lightnings oer the meadows play. Such charms in any breast might kindle love, But him the heats of inbred lewdness move; To which, tho Thrace is naturally prone, Yet his is still superior, and his own. Strait her attendants he designs to buy, And with large bribes her governess would try: Herself with ample gifts resolves to bend, And his whole kingdom in th attempt expend: Or, snatchd away by force of arms, to bear, And justify the rape with open war. The boundless passion boils within his breast, And his projecting soul admits no rest. And now, impatient of the least delay, By pleading Procnes cause, he speeds his way: The eloquence of love his tongue inspires, And, in his wifes, he speaks his own desires; Hence all his importunities arise, And tears unmanly trickle from his eyes. Ye Gods! what thick involving darkness blinds The stupid faculties of mortal minds! Tereus the credit of good-nature gains From these his crimes; so well the villain feigns. And, unsuspecting of his base designs, In the request fair Philomela joyns; Her snowy arms her aged sire embrace, And clasp his neck with an endearing grace: Only to see her sister she entreats, A seeming blessing, which a curse compleats. Tereus surveys her with a luscious eye, And in his mind forestalls the blissful joy: Her circling arms a scene of lust inspire, And evry kiss foments the raging fire. Fondly he wishes for the fathers place, To feel, and to return the warm embrace; Since not the nearest ties of filial blood Would damp his flame, and force him to be good. At length, for both their sakes, the king agrees; And Philomela, on her bended knees, Thanks him for what her fancy calls success, When cruel fate intends her nothing less. Now Phoebus, hastning to ambrosial rest, His fiery steeds drove sloping down the west: The sculpturd gold with sparkling wines was filld, And, with rich meats, each chearful table smild. Plenty, and mirth the royal banquet close, Then all retire to sleep, and sweet repose. But the lewd monarch, tho withdrawn apart, Still feels loves poison rankling in his heart: Her face divine is stampd within his breast, Fancy imagines, and improves the rest: And thus, kept waking by intense desire, He nourishes his own prevailing fire. Next day the good old king for Tereus sends, And to his charge the virgin recommends; His hand with tears th indulgent father pressd, Then spoke, and thus with tenderness addressd. Since the kind instances of pious love, Do all pretence of obstacle remove; Since Procnes, and her own, with your request, Oer-rule the fears of a paternal breast; With you, dear son, my daughter I entrust, And by the Gods adjure you to be just; By truth, and evry consanguineal tye, To watch, and guard her with a fathers eye. And, since the least delay will tedious prove, In keeping from my sight the child I love, With speed return her, kindly to asswage The tedious troubles of my lingring age. And you, my Philomel, let it suffice, To know your sisters banishd from my eyes; If any sense of duty sways your mind, Let me from you the shortest absence find. He wept; then kissd his child; and while he speaks, The tears fall gently down his aged cheeks. Next, as a pledge of fealty, he demands, And, with a solemn charge, conjoyns their hands; Then to his daughter, and his grandson sends, And by their mouth a blessing recommends; While, in a voice with dire forebodings broke, Sobbing, and faint, the last farewel was spoke. Now Philomela, scarce receivd on board, And in the royal gilded bark securd, Beheld the dashes of the bending oar, The ruffled sea, and the receding shore; When strait (his joy impatient of disguise) Weve gaind our point, the rough Barbarian cries; Now I possess the dear, the blissful hour, And evry wish subjected to my powr. Transports of lust his vicious thoughts employ, And he forbears, with pain, th expected joy. His gloting eyes incessantly surveyd The virgin beauties of the lovely maid: As when the bold rapacious bird of Jove, With crooked talons stooping from above, Has snatcht, and carryd to his lofty nest A captive hare, with cruel gripes opprest; Secure, with fixd, and unrelenting eyes, He sits, and views the helpless, trembling prize. Their vessels now had made th intended land, And all with joy descend upon the strand; When the false tyrant seizd the princely maid, And to a lodge in distant woods conveyd; Pale, sinking, and distressd with jealous fears, And asking for her sister all in tears. The letcher, for enjoyment fully bent, No longer now conceald his base intent; But with rude haste the bloomy girl deflowrd, Tender, defenceless, and with ease oerpowerd. Her piercing accents to her sire complain, And to her absent sister, but in vain: In vain she importunes, with doleful cries, Each unattentive godhead of the skies. She pants and trembles, like the bleating prey, From some close-hunted wolf just snatchd away; That still, with fearful horror, looks around, And on its flank regards the bleeding wound. Or, as the timrous dove, the danger oer, Beholds her shining plumes besmeard with gore, And, tho deliverd from the faulcons claw, Yet shivers, and retains a secret awe. But when her mind a calm reflection shard, And all her scatterd spirits were repaird: Torn, and disorderd while her tresses hung, Her livid hands, like one that mournd, she wrung; Then thus, with grief oerwhelmd her languid eyes, Savage, inhumane, cruel wretch! she cries; Whom not a parents strict commands could move, Tho chargd, and utterd with the tears of love; Nor virgin innocence, nor all thats due To the strong contract of the nuptial vow: Virtue, by this, in wild confusions laid, And I compelld to wrong my sisters bed; Whilst you, regardless of your marriage oath, With stains of incest have defild us both. Tho I deservd some punishment to find, This was, ye Gods! too cruel, and unkind. Yet, villain, to compleat your horrid guilt, Stab here, and let my tainted blood be spilt. Oh happy! had it come, before I knew The cursd embrace of vile perfidious you; Then my pale ghost, pure from incestuous love, Had wanderd spotless thro th Elysian grove. But, if the Gods above have powr to know, And judge those actions that are done below; Unless the dreaded thunders of the sky, Like me, subdud, and violated lye; Still my revenge shall take its proper time, And suit the baseness of your hellish crime. My self, abandond, and devoid of shame, Thro the wide world your actions will proclaim; Or tho Im prisond in this lonely den, Obscurd, and buryd from the sight of men, My mournful voice the pitying rocks shall move, And my complainings eccho thro the grove. Hear me, o Heavn! and, if a God be there, Let him regard me, and accept my prayr. Struck with these words, the tyrants guilty breast With fear, and anger, was, by turns, possest; Now, with remorse his conscience deeply stung, He drew the faulchion that beside her hung, And first her tender arms behind her bound, Then dragd her by the hair along the ground. The princess willingly her throat reclind, And viewd the steel with a contented mind; But soon her tongue the girding pinchers strain, With anguish, soon she feels the piercing pain: Oh father! father! would fain have spoke, But the sharp torture her intention broke; In vain she tries, for now the blade has cut Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root. The mangled part still quiverd on the ground, Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound: And, as a serpent writhes his wounded train, Uneasy, panting, and possessd with pain; The piece, while life remaind, still trembled fast, And to its mistress pointed to the last. Yet, after this so damnd, and black a deed, Fame (which I scarce can credit) has agreed, That on her rifled charms, still void of shame, He frequently indulgd his lustful flame, At last he ventures to his Procnes sight, Loaded with guilt, and cloyd with long delight; There, with feignd grief, and false, dissembled sighs, Begins a formal narrative of lies; Her sisters death he artfully declares, Then weeps, and raises credit from his tears. Her vest, with flowrs of gold embroiderd oer, With grief distressd, the mournful matron tore, And a beseeming suit of gloomy sable wore. With cost, an honorary tomb she raisd, And thus th imaginary ghost appeasd. Deluded queen! the fate of her you love, Nor grief, nor pity, but revenge should move. Thro the twelve signs had passd the circling sun, And round the compass of the Zodiac run; What must unhappy Philomela do, For ever subject to her keepers view? Huge walls of massy stone the lodge surround, From her own mouth no way of speakings found. But all our wants by wit may be supplyd, And art makes up, what fortune has denyd: With skill exact a Phrygian web she strung, Fixd to a loom that in her chamber hung, Where in-wrought letters, upon white displayd, In purple notes, her wretched case betrayd: The piece, when finishd, secretly she gave Into the charge of one poor menial slave; And then, with gestures, made him understand, It must be safe conveyd to Procnes hand. The slave, with speed, the queens apartment sought, And renderd up his charge, unknowing what he brought. But when the cyphers, figurd in each fold, Her sisters melancholy story told (Strange that she could!) with silence, she surveyd The tragick piece, and without weeping read: In such tumultuous haste her passions sprung, They choakd her voice, and quite disarmd her tongue. No room for female tears; the Furies rise, Darting vindictive glances from her eyes; And, stung with rage, she bounds from place to place, While stern revenge sits lowring in her face. Now the triennial celebration came, Observd to Bacchus by each Thracian dame; When, in the privacies of night retird, They act his rites, with sacred rapture fird: By night, the tinkling cymbals ring around, While the shrill notes from Rhodope resound; By night, the queen, disguisd, forsakes the court, To mingle in the festival resort. Leaves of the curling vine her temples shade, And, with a circling wreath, adorn her head: Adown her back the stags rough spoils appear, Light on her shoulder leans a cornel spear. Thus, in the fury of the God conceald, Procne her own mad headstrong passion veild; Now, with her gang, to the thick wood she flies, And with religious yellings fills the skies; The fatal lodge, as twere by chance, she seeks, And, thro the bolted doors, an entrance breaks; From thence, her sister snatching by the hand, Maskd like the ranting Bacchanalian band, Within the limits of the court she drew, Shading, with ivy green, her outward hue. But Philomela, conscious of the place, Felt new reviving pangs of her disgrace; A shivring cold prevaild in evry part, And the chilld blood ran trembling to her heart. Soon as the queen a fit retirement found, Stript of the garlands that her temples crownd, She strait unveild her blushing sisters face, And fondly claspd her with a close embrace: But, in confusion lost, th unhappy maid, With shame dejected, hung her drooping head, As guilty of a crime that staind her sisters bed. That speech, that should her injurd virtue clear, And make her spotless innocence appear, Is now no more; only her hands, and eyes Appeal, in signals, to the conscious skies. In Procnes breast the rising passions boil, And burst in anger with a mad recoil; Her sisters ill-timd grief, with scorn, she blames, Then, in these furious words her rage proclaims. Tears, unavailing, but defer our time, The stabbing sword must expiate the crime; Or worse, if wit, on bloody vengeance bent, A weapon more tormenting can invent. O sister! Ive prepard my stubborn heart, To act some hellish, and unheard-of part; Either the palace to surround with fire, And see the villain in the flames expire; Or, with a knife, dig out his cursed eyes, Or, his false tongue with racking engines seize; Or, cut away the part that injurd you, And, thro a thousand wounds, his guilty soul pursue. Tortures enough my passion has designd, But the variety distracts my mind. A-while, thus wavring, stood the furious dame, When Itys fondling to his mother came; From him the cruel fatal hint she took, She viewd him with a stern remorseless look: Ah! but too like thy wicked sire, she said, Forming the direful purpose in her head. At this a sullen grief her voice supprest, While silent passions struggle in her breast. Now, at her lap arrivd, the flattring boy Salutes his parent with a smiling joy: About her neck his little arms are thrown, And he accosts her in a pratling tone. Then her tempestuous anger was allayd, And in its full career her vengeance stayd; While tender thoughts, in spite of passion, rise, And melting tears disarm her threatning eyes. But when she found the mothers easy heart, Too fondly swerving from th intended part; Her injurd sisters face again she viewd: And, as by turns surveying both she stood, While this fond boy (she said) can thus express The moving accents of his fond address; Why stands my sister of her tongue bereft, Forlorn, and sad, in speechless silence left? O Procne, see the fortune of your house! Such is your fate, when matchd to such a spouse! Conjugal duty, if observd to him, Would change from virtue, and become a crime; For all respect to Tereus must debase The noble blood of great Pandions race. Strait at these words, with big resentment filld, Furious her look, she flew, and seizd her child; Like a fell tigress of the savage kind, That drags the tender suckling of the hind Thro Indias gloomy groves, where Ganges laves The shady scene, and rouls his streamy waves. Now to a close apartment they were come, Far off retird within the spacious dome; When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent, Home to his heart a piercing ponyard sent. Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late, Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate; Still at his mothers neck he fondly aims, And strives to melt her with endearing names; Yet still the cruel mother perseveres, Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears. This might suffice; but Philomela too Across his throat a shining curtlass drew. Then both, with knives, dissect each quivring part, And carve the butcherd limbs with cruel art; Which, whelmd in boiling cauldrons oer the fire, Or turnd on spits, in steamy smoak aspire: While the long entries, with their slippry floor, Run down in purple streams of clotted gore. Askd by his wife to this inhuman feast, Tereus unknowingly is made a guest: Whilst she her plot the better to disguise, Styles it some unknown mystick sacrifice; And such the nature of the hallowd rite, The wife her husband only could invite, The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarrd the sight. Tereus, upon a throne of antique state, Loftily raisd, before the banquet sate; And glutton like, luxuriously pleasd, With his own flesh his hungry maw appeasd. Nay, such a blindness oer his senses falls, That he for Itys to the table calls. When Procne, now impatient to disclose The joy that from her full revenge arose, Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind, Within your self your Itys you may find. Still, at this puzzling answer, with surprise, Around the room he sends his curious eyes; And, as he still inquird, and calld aloud, Fierce Philomela, all besmeard with blood, Her hands with murder staind, her spreading hair Hanging disheveld with a ghastly air, Stept forth, and flung full in the tyrants face The head of Itys, goary as it was: Nor ever so much to use her tongue, And with a just reproach to vindicate her wrong. The Thracian monarch from the table flings, While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings; His imprecations eccho down to Hell, And rouze the snaky Furies from their Stygian cell. One while he labours to disgorge his breast, And free his stomach from the cursed feast; Then, weeping oer his lamentable doom, He styles himself his sons sepulchral tomb. Now, with drawn sabre, and impetuous speed, In close pursuit he drives Pandions breed; Whose nimble feet spring with so swift a force Across the fields, they seem to wing their course. And now, on real wings themselves they raise, And steer their airy flight by diffrent ways; One to the woodlands shady covert hies, Around the smoaky roof the other flies; Whose feathers yet the marks of murder stain, Where stampt upon her breast, the crimson spots remain. Tereus, through grief, and haste to be revengd, Shares the like fate, and to a bird is changd: Fixd on his head, the crested plumes appear, Long is his beak, and sharpend like a spear; Thus armd, his looks his inward mind display, And, to a lapwing turnd, he fans his way. Exceeding trouble, for his childrens fate, Shortend Pandions days, and changd his date; Down to the shades below, with sorrow spent, An earlier, unexpected ghost he went. classics.mit.edu/Ovid/metam.6.sixth.html
Posted on: Fri, 18 Oct 2013 10:20:05 +0000
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