WHEN Orpheus, as old Poets tell,
Carry’d his Music down to Hell,
He fill’d the Shades with Joys;
Alecto, and Tisiphone,
Megaera, with Brown HECATE,
Transported heard his Voice.
And whilst He led the Song divine,
The Spectres all in Chorus join;
Such was grim PLUTO’s Will!
Tantalus quaff’d a flowing Bowl,
Sisyphus ceas’d his Stone to roll,
Ixion’s Wheel stood
His Person, Melody, and Lyre
Set the infernal Queen on Fire,
Who courted him to stay;
But PLUTO, to prevent all Strife,
Order’d the Poet, with his Wife,
Back to the Realms of Day.
Joyful they speed for upper Air;
When, to divide the happy Pair,
HECAT’ contriv’d a Spell:
Now, now, she cry’d, in rapt’rous Tone,
His Harmony is all my own!
I’ll make a Heav’n in Hell!
For me, and my Tartarean Crew,
Endless the wanton Song renew!
O ever, touch the Lyre!
But still the Bard, in heav’nly Lays,
Wou’d sing his King’s and Maker’s Praise,
And kindle martial Fire. 
Enrag’d, the * triple-headed Dame
Howl’d; in a Trice the Furies came,
Threat’ning a dreadful Fate;
’Till PHOEBUS, with the tuneful Nine,
And lovely Graces, all combine
To shield Him from their Hate.
Thus sav’d from Death, He shares the Love
Of Men below, and Blest above,
The Virtuous, Brave, and Wise;
While ev’ry chaste, and pious Mind,
To Vice averse, to Good inclin’d,
Must HECAT’s Name despise.