Who trust your courser's strength, and not your own?

Forego the vantage of your horse, alight,
And then on equal terms begin the fight:

It shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,
When, foot to foot, you combat with a man,"

He said. She glows with anger and disdain,
Dismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,

And leaves her horse at large among her train;
With her drawn sword defies him to the field,

And, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.
The youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,

Reins round his horse, and urges all his speed;
Adds the remembrance of the spur, and hides

The goring rowels in his bleeding sides.
"Vain fool, and coward!" cries the lofty maid,

"Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!
On others practice thy Ligurian arts;

Thin stratagems and tricks of little hearts
Are lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,

With vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire."
At this, so fast her flying feet she sped,

That soon she strain'd beyond his horse's head:
Then turning short, at once she seiz'd the rein,

And laid the boaster grov'ling on the plain.
Not with more ease the falcon, from above,

Trusses in middle air the trembling dove,
Then plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:

The feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.
Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,

With his broad eye surveys th' unequal fight.
He fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,

And sends him to redeem th' abandon'd plain.
Betwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,

And these encourages, and those he chides;
Recalls each leader, by his name, from flight;

Renews their ardor, and restores the fight.
"What panic fear has seiz'd your souls? O shame,

O brand perpetual of th' Etrurian name!
Cowards incurable, a woman's hand

Drives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!
Now cast away the sword, and quit the shield!

What use of weapons which you dare not wield?
Not thus you fly your female foes by night,

Nor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;
When to fat off'rings the glad augur calls,

And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.
These are your studied cares, your lewd delight:

Swift to debauch, but slow to manly fight."
Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes,

Not managing the life he meant to lose.
The first he found he seiz'd with headlong haste,

In his strong gripe, and clasp'd around the waist;
'T was Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,

And, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.
Loud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,

And view th' unusual sight with vast surprise.
The fiery Tarchon, flying o'er the plains,

Press'd in his arms the pond'rous prey sustains;
Then, with his shorten'd spear, explores around

His jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.
Nor less the captive struggles for his life:

He writhes his body to prolong the strife,
And, fencing for his naked throat, exerts

His utmost vigor, and the point averts.
So stoops the yellow eagle from on high,

And bears a speckled serpent thro' the sky,
Fast'ning his crooked talons on the prey:

The pris'ner hisses thro' the liquid way;
Resists the royal hawk; and, tho' oppress'd,

She fights in volumes, and erects her crest:
Turn'd to her foe, she stiffens ev'ry scale,

And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat'ning tail.
Against the victor, all defense is weak:

Th' imperial bird still plies her with his beak;
He tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;

Then claps his pinions, and securely soars.
Thus, thro' the midst of circling enemies,

Strong Tarchon snatch'd and bore away his prize.
The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press

The Latins, and presume the like success.
Then Aruns, doom'd to death, his arts assay'd,

To murther, unespied, the Volscian maid:
This way and that his winding course he bends,

And, whereso'er she turns, her steps attends.
When she retires victorious from the chase,

He wheels about with care, and shifts his place;
When, rushing on, she seeks her foes flight,

He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:
He threats, and trembles, trying ev'ry way,

Unseen to kill, and safely to betray.
Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,

Glitt'ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,
Was by the virgin view'd. The steed he press'd

Was proud with trappings, and his brawny chest
With scales of gilded brass was cover'd o'er;

A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.
With deadly wounds he gall'd the distant foe;

Gnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:
A golden helm his front and head surrounds

A gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.
Gold, weav'd with linen, on his thighs he wore,

With flowers of needlework distinguish'd o'er,
With golden buckles bound, and gather'd up before.

Him the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,
Fond and ambitious of so rich a prize,

Or that the temple might his trophies hold,
Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold.

Blind in her haste, she chases him alone.
And seeks his life, regardless of her own.

This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:
Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose,

And threw, but first to Heav'n address'd his vows:
"O patron of Socrates' high abodes,

Phoebus, the ruling pow'r among the gods,
Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine

Are fell'd for thee, and to thy glory shine;
By thee protected with our naked soles,

Thro' flames unsing'd we march, and tread the kindled coals
Give me, propitious pow'r, to wash away

The stains of this dishonorable day:
Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,

But with my future actions trust my fame.
Let me, by stealth, this femaleplague o'ercome,

And from the field return inglorious home."
Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray'r,

Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss'd in empty air.
He gives the death desir'd; his safe return