s, and withdrew in quest of his
darling Wotton.

He, in the meantime, had wandered long in search of some enterprise, till
at length he arrived at a small rivulet that issued from a fountain hard
by, called, in the language of mortal men, Helicon. Here he stopped,
and, parched with thirst, resolved to allay it in this limpid stream.
Thrice with profane hands he essayed to raise the water to his lips, and
thrice it slipped all through his fingers. Then he stopped prone on his
breast, but, ere his mouth had kissed the liquid crystal, Apollo came,
and in the channel held his shield betwixt the Modern and the fountain,
so that he drew up nothing but mud. For, although no fountain on earth
can compare with the clearness of Helicon, yet there lies at bottom a
thick sediment of slime and mud; for so Apollo begged of Jupiter, as a
punishment to those who durst attempt to taste it with unhallowed lips,
and for a lesson to all not to draw too deep or far from the spring.

At the fountain-head Wotton discerned two heroes; the one he could not
distinguish, but the other was soon known for Temple, general of the
allies to the Ancients. His back was turned, and he was employed in
drinking large draughts in his helmet from the fountain, where he had
withdrawn himself to rest from the toils of the war. Wotton, observing
him, with quaking knees and trembling hands, spoke thus to himself: O
that I could kill this destroyer of our army, what renown should I
purchase among the chiefs! but to issue out against him, man against man,
shield against shield, and lance against lance, what Modern of us dare?
for he fights like a god, and Pallas or Apollo are ever at his elbow.
But, O mother! if what Fame reports be true, that I am the son of so
great a goddess, grant me to hit Temple with this lance, that the stroke
may send him to hell, and that I may return in safety and triumph, laden
with his spoils. The first part of this prayer the gods granted at the
intercession of his mother and of Momus; but the rest, by a perverse wind
sent from Fate, was scattered in the air. Then Wotton grasped his lance,
and, brandishing it thrice over his head, darted it with all his might;
the goddess, his mother, at the same time adding strength to his arm.
Away the lance went hizzing, and reached even to the belt of the averted
Ancient, upon which, lightly grazing, it fell to the ground. Temple
neither felt the weapon touch him nor heard it fall: and Wot