His white main'd Steeds, that bow'd beneath the Yoke,
He chear'd to Courage, with a gentle Stroke;
Then urg'd his fiery Chariot on the Foe;
And rising shook his Lance; in act to throw,
But first he cry'd, O Youth, be proud to bear
Thy Death, ennobled by Pelides' Spear.
The Lance pursu'd the Voice without delay,
Nor did the whizzing Weapon miss the way;
But pierc'd his Cuirass, with such Fury sent,
And sign'd his Bosom with a Purple Dint.
At this the Seed of Neptune; Goddess-born,
For Ornament, not Use, these Arms are worn;
This Helm, and heavy Buckler, I can spare;
As only Decorations of the War:
So Mars is arm'd for Glory, not for Need.
'Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed,
Than from a Daughter of the Sea to spring:
Thy Sire is Mortal; mine is Ocean's King.
Secure of Death, I shou'd contemn thy Dart,
Tho' naked, and impassible depart:
He said, and threw: The trembling Weapon pass'd
Through nine Bull-hides, each under other plac'd,
On his broad Shield; and stuck within the last.
Achilles wrench'd it out; and sent again
The hostile Gift: The hostile Gift was vain.
He try'd a third, a tough well-chosen Spear;
Th' inviolable Body stood sincere,
Though Cygnus then did no Defence provide,
But scornful offer'd his unshielded Side.
Not otherwise th' impatient Hero far'd,
Than as a Bull incompass'd with a Guard,
Amid the Circus roars, provok'd from far
By sight of Scarlet, and a sanguine War:
They quit their Ground, his bended Horns elude;
In vain pursuing, and in vain pursu'd.
Before
