She, fixing on the boy Her eyes, her soul, impatient to admire, Now, fondling, folds him to her lap with joy; Weetless, alas! what god is plotting to destroy.
XCV.

True to his Paphian mother, trace by trace, Slowly the Love-god with prevenient art, Begins the lost Sychaeus to efface, And living passion to a breast impart Long dead to feeling, and a vacant heart.
Now, hushed the banquet and the tables all Removed, huge wine-bowls for each guest apart They wreathe with flowers.

The noise of festival Rings through the spacious courts, and rolls along the hall.
XCVI.

There, blazing from the gilded roof, are seen Bright lamps, and torches turn the night to day.
Now for the ponderous goblet called the Queen, Of jewelled gold, which Belus used and they Of Belus' line, and poured the wine straightway, And prayed, while silence filled the crowded hall: "Great Jove, the host's lawgiver, bless this day To these my Tyrians and the Trojans all.
Long may our children's sons this solemn feast recall.
XCVII.

"Come, jolly Bacchus, giver of delight; Kind Juno, come; and ye with fair accord And friendly spirit hold the feast aright." So spake the Queen, and on the festal board The prime libation to the gods outpoured, Then lightly to her lips the goblet pressed, And gave to Bitias.