A small thin skin contained the vital parts; The heart stirred not; and from the gaping liver Squeezed matter through the caul; the entrails peered; And which (ay me!) ever pretendeth[643] ill, At that bunch where the liver is, appear'd A knob of flesh, whereof one half did look Dead and discolour'd, th' other lean and thin.[644] By these he seeing what mischiefs must ensue, Cried out, "O gods, I tremble to unfold 630 What you intend! great Jove is now displeas'd; And in the breast of this slain bull are crept Th' infernal powers. My fear transcends my words; Yet more will happen than I can unfold: Turn all to good, be augury vain, and Tages, Th' art's master, false!" Thus, in ambiguous terms Involving all, did Arruns darkly sing. But Figulus, more seen in heavenly mysteries, Whose like ∆gyptian Memphis never had For skill in stars and tuneful planeting,[645] 640 In this sort spake: "The world's swift course is lawless And casual; all the stars at random range;[646] Or if fate rule them, Rome, thy citizens Are near some plague. What mischief shall ensue? Shall towns be swallow'd? shall the thicken'd air Become intemperate? shall the earth be barren? Shall water be congeal'd and turn'd to ice?[647] O gods, what death prepare ye? with what plague Mean ye to rage? the death of many men Meets in one period. If cold noisome Saturn 650 Were now exalted, and with blue beams shin'd, Then Ganymede[648] would renew Deucalion's flood, And in the fleeting sea the earth be drench'd. O Phoebus, shouldst thou with thy rays now singe The fell NemÊan beast, th' earth would be fir'd, And heaven tormented with thy chafing heat: But thy fires hurt not. Mars, 'tis thou inflam'st The threatening Scorpion with the burning tail, And fir'st his cleys:[649] why art thou thus enrag'd? Kind Jupiter hath low declin'd himself; 660 Venus is faint; swift Hermes retrograde; Mars only rules the heaven. Why do the planets Alter their course, and vainly dim their virtue? Sword-girt Orion's side glisters too bright: War's rage draws near; and to the sword's strong hand Let all laws yield, sin bears the name of virtue: Many a year these furious broils let last: Why should we wish the gods should ever end them? War only gives us peace. O Rome, continue The course of mischief, and stretch out the date 670 Of slaughter! only civil broils make peace." These sad presages were enough to scare The quivering Romans; but worse things affright them. As MÊnas[650] full of wine on Pindus raves, So runs a matron through th' amazËd streets, Disclosing Phoebus' fury in this sort; "PÊan, whither am I haled? where shall I fall, Thus borne aloft? I seen PangÊus' hill