The first as to his Aid he ftretch'd his hand,
Both at an instant, headlong, ftruck the Sand.
Her Arm Amaftrus next, and Tereas feel.
Then follows Chromis with her lifted Steel.
Of all her Quiver not a Shaft was lost,
But each attended by a Trojan Ghost,
Strong Orphitus, (in Arms unknown before,)
In Battle an Apulian Courfer bore.
His brawny Back wrapt in a Bullock's skin,
Upon his Head a Wolf did fiercely grin,
Above the rest his mighty Shoulders show,
And he looks down upon the Troops below:
Him (and 'twas eafie, while his fellows fled)
Sheftruck along, and thus fhe triumph'd while he bled.
Some Coward Game thou didst believe to chace,
But, Hunter, see a Woman ftops thy race.
Yet to requiring Ghosts this Glory bear,
Thy Soul was yielded to Camilla's Spear.

The mighty Butes next receives her Lance,
(While Breast to Breaft the Combatants advance,)
Clanging between his Armour's joynts it rung,
While on his Arm his ufelefs Target hung.
Then from Orfilochus in Circle runs,
And follows the Purfuer, while fhe fhuns.

For

For ftill with craft a narrow ring fhe wheels,
And brings herself up to the Chaser's heels.
Her Ax, regardlefs of his Prayers and Groans,
She crashes thro' his Armour and his Bones.
Redoubled ftroakes the vanquish'd Foe fuftains,
His reeking Face befpatter'd with his Brains.

Chance brought unhappy Дunus to the place:
Who stopping short, ftar'd wildly in her Face,
Of all to whom Liguria Fraud imparts,
While Fate allow'd that fraud, he was of fubtleft Arts;
Who, when he faw he cou'd not fhun the Fight,
Strives to avoid the Virgin by his flight;
And crys aloud, What Courage can you shew,
By cunning Horfemanship to cheat a Foe?
Forego your Horse, and strive not to betray,
But dare to combat a more equal way:
'Tis thus we see who merits Glory best.
So brav'd, fierce Indignation fires her Breast;
Difmounted from her Horfe, in open field,
Now, firft fhe draws her Sword, and lifts her Sheild.
He, thinking that his Cunning did fucceed,
Reins round his Horfe, and urges all his speed,
His golden Rowels hidden in his fides:
When thus his useless fraud the Maid derides :

Poor Wretch, that fwell'ft with a deluding pride,
In vain thy Country's little Arts are try❜d.
No more the Coward shall behold his Sire;

Then plies her Feet, quick as the nimble fire,
And up before his Horfes head fhe strains;
When feizing, with a furious hand, his Reins,
She wreaks her fury on his spouting Veins.
So, from a Rock, a Hawk foars high above,
And in a Cloud with ease o'retakes a Dove;
His Pounces fo the grappled foe affail,
And Blood and Feathers mingle in a hail.

}

Now Jove, to whom Mankind is ftill in fight, With more than ufual care beholds the fight. And urging Tarchon on, to rage inspires The furious deeds to which his Blood he fires. He fpurs through Slaughter, and his failing Troops, And with his Voice lifts every Arm that droops. He shouts his Name in every Souldiers Ears: Reviling thus the Spirits which he chears.

Ye fham'd, and ever branded Tyrrhene Race, From whence this Terror, and your Souls fo bafe? When tender Virgins triumph in the Field, Let every brawny Arm let fall his Sheild, And break the coward Sword he dare not weild.

Not

Not thus

you flie the daring She by night;

Nor Goblets, that your drunken Throats invite. This is your choice, when with lewd Bacchanals, Y're call'd by the fatSacrifice,it waits not when it calls Thus having faid,

He Spurs, with headlong rage, among his Foes,
As if he only had his Life to lose.

And meeting Venulus his Arms he clafps;
The Armour dints beneath the furious Grafps.
High from his Horfe the fprawling Foe he rears,
And thwart his Courfers neck the Prize he bears.
The Trojans fhout, the Latines turn their Eyes;
While swift as lightning airy Tarchon flies.
Who breaks his Lance, and veiws his Armour round,
To find where he might fix the deadly Wound;
The Foe writhes doubling backward on the Horse,
And to defend his Throat opposes force to force.
As when an Eagle high his courfe does take,
And in his griping Tallons bears a Snake,
A thousand folds the Serpent cafts, and high
(Sky,
Setting his fpeckled Scales, goes whistling thro' the
The fearless Bird but deeper goars his Prey,
And thro' the Clouds he cuts his airy way.

So

So from the midst of all his Enemies,

Triumphant Tarchon fnatch'd and bore his Prize.
The Troops that shrunk, with emulation press

To reach his Danger now, to reach at his Succefs.
Then Aruns doom'd, in spight of all his art,
Surrounds the nimble Virgin with his Dart,
And, flily watching for his time, would try
To joyn his Safety with his Treachery.
Where e're her Rage the bold Camilla fends,
There creeping Aruns filently attends.
When, tir'd with conquering, fhe retires from fight,
He steals about his Horse, and keeps her in his fight.
In all her Rounds from him fhe cannot part,
Who shakes his treacherous, but inevitable Dart,
Chloreus, the Priest of Cybele, did glare

In Phrygian Arms remarkable afar.

A foaming Steed he rode, whose hanches case,
Like Feathers, Scales of mingled Gold and Brass.
He, clad in forreign Purple, gaul'd the Foe
With Cretan Arrows from a Lycian Bow.
Gold was that Bow, and Gold his Helmet too :
Gay were his upper Robes, which lofely flew.
Each Limb was cover'd o're with fomething rare,
And as he fought he glifter'd ev'ry where.