Day’s journey of the Sun had nearly ended, Westward his horses steered behind Olympus. Royal supper served, red wine in golden vessels, Feasted and drunk, the palace fell asleep, But not Tereus—though he went to bed, His mind still boiled with thoughts of Philomela, Her glance, how she moved her feet and hands— And what he had not seen he well imagined, Which fed his furnace high and drove off sleep.
