Love met Medusa on the Libyan plains, Whose serpent locks dart death at them that see. "Ah, boy," she cried, "the cause of all my pains, At last sweet vengeance I can wreak on thee." Love looked nor faltered at her horrid gaze. She tore her hissing hair to strike him dead; But where her wild blows fell, to her amaze, Red roses burst in bloom. Love laughing fled. |