Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes, Not managing the life he meant to lose. The first he found he seized, with headlong haste, In his strong gripe, and clasped around the waist: 'Twas 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 the unusual sight with vast surprise. The fiery Tarchon, flying o'er the plains, Pressed in his arms the ponderous prey sustains, Then, with his shortened 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 vigour, and the point averts. So stoops the yellow eagle from on high, And bears a speckled serpent through the sky, Fastening his crooked talons on the prey: The prisoner hisses through the liquid way; Resists the royal hawk; and, though oppressed, She fights in volumes, and erects her crest: Turned to her foe, she stiffens every scale, And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threatening tail. Against the victor, all defence is weak: The 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, through the midst of circling enemies, Strong Tarchon snatched and bore away his prize. The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press The Latins, and presume the like success. Then Arruns, doomed to death, his arts essayed To murder, unespied, the Volscian maid: This way and that his winding course he bends, And, wheresoe'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 in fight, He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight: He threats, and trembles, trying every way, Unseen to kill, and safely to betray. Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far, Glittering in Phrygian arms amidst the war, Was by the virgin viewed. The steed he pressed Was proud with trappings; and his brawny chest With scales of gilded brass was covered o'er: A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore. With deadly wounds he galled 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, weaved with linen, on his thighs he wore, } With flowers of needle-work distinguished o'er, } With golden buckles bound, and gathered 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,