XCIV. "Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name? Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight? O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame! What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight? No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night, Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear. The feast and wine-cup--these are your delight; For these ye linger, till the approving seer Calls to the grove's deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer." XCV. Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die, He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize, And bore him on his saddle-bow. A cry Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes. Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies, And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends, Each chink and crevice in his armour tries, To deal the death-blow. He, as fierce, contends, And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends. XCVI. As when a golden eagle, high in air, Wreathed with a serpent, fastens, as she flies, With feet that clutch, and taloned claws that tear. Coil writhed in coil, the roughening scales uprise, The crest points up, the hissing tongue defies. She with sharp beak still rends the struggling prey, And beats the air. So Tarchon with his prize Through Tibur's host exulting speeds away. With cheers the Tuscans charge, and hail their chief's essay. XCVII. Now, due to fate, aloof with lifted lance, The crafty Aruns round Camilla wheels, And tries where fortune lends the readiest chance. Oft as she charges, where the war-shout peals, He slips unseen, and follows on her heels. When back she runs, triumphant from the foe, He shifts the rein, and from the conflict steals. Now here, now there, he doubles to and fro, And shakes his felon spear, but hesitates to throw. XCVIII. Lo, Chloreus, priest of Cybele, aglow In Phrygian armour, gorgeous to behold, Urges his foaming charger at the foe, All decked in feathered chain-work, linked with gold. Cretan his shafts, his bow of Lycian mould. Dark blue and foreign purple clothed his breast, Golden his casque and bow; his mantle's fold Of yellow saffron knots of gold compressed, And buskins bound his knees, and broidered was his vest. XCIX. Him the fierce huntress, whether fain the shrine To deck with trophies, or with envious eyes Wishful herself in Trojan arms to shine, Marks in the strife; at him alone she flies, Proud, like a woman, of her fancied prize. Blindly she runs, uncautious of the snare, When, darting from the ambush, where he lies, The moment snatched, false Aruns shakes his spear, And thus, with measured aim, invokes the Gods with prayer.