For I, whom in a feather’d shape you view, Was once a maid (by Heav’n the story’s true) A blooming maid, and a king’s daughter too. A crowd of lovers own’d my beauty’s charms;
Observ’d me in my walks, and fell in love. He made his courtship, he confess’d his pain, And offer’d force, when all his arts were vain;
all of the gods, it appears, are engines,
ever, of irrepressible lust, perhaps
allegorically alluding to the unquenchable
generative powers of very Nature
Swift he pursu’d: I ran along the strand, ‘Till, spent and weary’d on the sinking sand, I shriek’d aloud, with cries I fill’d the air To Gods and men; nor God nor man was there:
For, as my arms I lifted to the skies, I saw black feathers from my fingers rise; I strove to fling my garment on the ground; My garment turn’d to plumes, and girt me round: My hands to beat my naked bosom try; Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I:
the king’s daughter, still unnamed, note,
attesting to the interchangeability of
virgin’s in Greek and Roman mythology,
is in the process of becoming a daw, a
black bird
Lightly I tript, nor weary as before Sunk in the sand, but skim’d along the shore;
it appears there are advantages
to becoming a bird
‘Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr’d To be the chaste Minerva’s virgin bird:
go, girl
Preferr’d in vain! I am now in disgrace: Nyctimene the owl enjoys my place.