Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Proserpine and Midas
“ Offspring of Gods art thou,—nor Hell, nor Jove Shall tear thee from thy Mother’s clasping arms. PROSERPINA. If fate decrees, can we resist? farewel! Oh! Mother, dearer to your child than light, Than all the forms of this sweet earth & sky, Though dear are these, and dear are my poor nymphs, Whom I must leave;—oh! can immortals weep? And can a Goddess die as mortals do, Or live & reign where it is death to be? Ino, dear Arethuse, again you lose Your hapless Proserpine, lost to herself When she quits you for gloomy Tartarus. CERES. Is there no help, great Jove? ”
