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Their dusky pants the radiant light obscured,
Which yet, to darkness used, they scarce endured;
But champed their bits, and, shrinking from the day,
Half turned to Chaos from the skies away.
But when they felt the bitter lash, and grew
Accustomed to the sun, more swift they flew
Than Parthian dart, the torrent, or the wind,
Or thoughts that hurry through an anxious mind.
Their curbs are hot with blood: the air is faint
With their foul breath; the sands their foam-drops taint.
The Nymphs disperse: sad Proserpine, conveyed
To that dread car, implores her sisters' aid.
Her Gorgon's visage soon Minerva bares,
Her bow keen Delia for the strife prepares;
Their uncle's hateful crime their soul alarms,
And common maidenhood incites to arms.
He stands, as stands the lion, grimly bold,
Above the heifer, fairest of the fold;
From whose rent flanks he tears his dainty food,
Steeps his fierce claws and savage teeth in blood;
And treats, as loose he shakes his matted mane,
The herdsmen's anger with a proud disdain.
Minerva cries—"O worst of all thy race,
Imperious ruler over subjects base,
