Sore wept the centuar, and to Phoebus pray'd; But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? Degraded of his pow'r by angry Jove, In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove; And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak; On sev'n compacted reeds he us'd to play, And on his rural pipe to waste the day. As once attentive to his pipe he play'd, The crafty Hermes from the God convey'd A drove, that sep'rate from their fellows stray'd. The theft an old insidious peasant view'd (They call'd him Battus in the neighbourhood), Hir'd by a vealthy Pylian prince to feed His fav'rite mares, and watch the gen'rous breed. The thievish God suspected him, and took The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke: "Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be, And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee." "Go, stranger," cries the clown, "securely on, That stone shall sooner tell," and show'd a stone. The God withdrew, but strait return'd again, In speech and habit like a country swain; And cries out, "Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way? In the recov'ry of my cattle join, A bullock and a heifer shall be thine." The peasant quick replies, "You'll find 'em there In yon dark vale"; and in the vale they were. The double bribe had his false heart beguil'd: The God, successful in the tryal, smil'd; "And dost thou thus betray my self to me? Me to my self dost thou betray?" says he: Then to a Touch stone turns the faithless spy; And in his name records his infamy.