Inquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
With veins of every metal does abound,
If she to her Propoetides would show
The honour Sparta does to him allow.
“No more,” she’d say, “such wretches would we grace,
Than those whose crooked horns deform’d their face,
From thence Cerastae call’d, an impious race,
Before whose gates a reverend altar stood,
To Jove inscribed, the hospitable god:
This had some stranger seen, with gore besmear’d,
The blood of lambs and bulls it had appear’d:
Their slaughter’d guests’ it was; not flock nor herd.”
Venus these barb’rous sacrifices view’d
With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursued.
At first, to punish such nefarious crimes,
Their towns she meant to leave, her once-loved climes.
“But why,” said she, “for their offence should I
My dear delightful plains and cities fly?
No, let the impious people, who have sinn’d,
A punishment in death or exile find:
If death or exile too severe be thought,
Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault;
While next her mind a proper form employs,
Admonish’d by their horns, she fix’d her choice,
Their former crest remains upon their heads,
And their strong limbs an ox’s shape invades.
The blasphemous Propoetides denied
Worship of Venus, and her power defied;
Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,
A small transition changes them to stone.