Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken, Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey.
Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray, And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway.
He through the squadrons on his steed aflame Rides 'mid the carnage, where the ranks give way; Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name, Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.
XCIV.

"Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name?
Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight?
O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame! What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight?
No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night, Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear.
The feast and wine-cup--these are your delight; For these ye linger, till the approving seer Calls to the grove's deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer." XCV.

Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die, He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize, And bore him on his saddle-bow.

A cry Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes.
Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies, And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends, Each chink and crevice in his armour tries, To deal the death-blow.

He, as fierce, contends, And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends.
XCVI.