The waters boil, and, belching, from below Black sands, as from a forceful engine, throw. Thus every creature, and of every kind, The secret joys of sweet coition find, Not only man's imperial race, but they That wing the liquid air, or swim the sea, Or haunt the desert, rush into the flame: For Love is lord of all, and is in all the same. 'Tis with this rage, the mother lion stung, Scours o'er the plain, regardless of her young: Demanding rites of love, she sternly stalks, And hunts her lover in his lonely walks. 'Tis then the shapeless bear his den forsakes; In woods and fields a wild destruction makes: Boars whet their tusks; to battle tigers move, Enraged with hunger, more enraged with love. Then woe to him, that, in the desert land Of Libya, travels o'er the burning sand! The stallion snuffs the well-known scent afar, And snorts and trembles for the distant mare; Nor bits nor bridles can his rage restrain, And rugged rocks are interposed in vain: He makes his way o'er mountains, and contemns Unruly torrents, and unforded streams. The bristled boar, who feels the pleasing wound, New grinds his arming tusks, and digs the ground. The sleepy lecher shuts his little eyes; About his churning chaps the frothy bubbles rise: He rubs his sides against a tree; prepares And hardens both his shoulders for the wars. What did the youth, when Love's unerring dart Transfixed his liver, and inflamed his heart? Alone, by night, his watery way he took; About him, and above, the billows broke; The sluices of the sky were open spread, And rolling thunder rattled o'er his head; The raging tempest called him back in vain, And every boding omen of the main: Nor could his kindred, nor the kindly force Of weeping parents, change his fatal course; No, not the dying maid, who must deplore His floating carcase on the Sestian shore. I pass the wars that spotted lynxes make With their fierce rivals for the female's sake, The howling wolves', the mastiffs' amorous rage; When even the fearful stag dares for his hind engage. But, far above the rest, the furious mare, Barred from the male, is frantic with despair: For, when her pouting vent declares her pain, She tears the harness, and she rends the rein. For this (when Venus gave them rage and power) Their master's mangled members they devour, Of love defrauded in their longing hour. For love, they force through thickets of the wood, They climb the steepy hills, and stem the flood. When, at the spring's approach, their marrow burns, (For with the spring their genial warmth returns,) The mares to cliffs of rugged rocks repair, And with wide nostrils snuff the western air: When (wonderous to relate!) the parent wind, Without the stallion, propagates the kind. Then, fired with amorous rage, they take their flight Through plains, and mount the hills' unequal height;