And shouted, "Now, O never known to fail Thy master's call, my trusty spear, I trow The hour is come.

Once, mightiest under mail, Did Actor wield thee; Turnus wields thee now.
Grant this strong hand to lay the foeman low, This Phrygian eunuch of his arms to spoil, And rend his shattered breastplate with a blow; Dragged in the dust, his dainty curls to soil, Hot from the crisping tongs, and wet with myrrh and oil." XIV.

Such furies urge him, and, ablaze with ire, His hot face sparkles, and his eyes burn bright, And from his eye-balls leaps the living fire; As when a bull, in prelude for the fight, Roars terribly, and fills the hinds with fright, And, butting at a chance-met tree, would try To vent his fury on his horns of might, And with his fierce hoofs flings the sand on high, And gores the empty air, and challenges the sky.
XV.

Nor less, meanwhile, and terrible in arms,-- The arms that Venus to her son doth lend,-- AEneas rages, and the War-God warms.
Pleased with the challenge, singly to contend, And bring the weary warfare to an end, His friends he cheers, and calms Iulus' care, Unfolding Fate, then heralds hastes to send, His answer to the Latin King to bear: The challenge he accepts, the terms of peace are fair.
XVI.

Scarce Morning glimmered on the mountains grey, And Phoebus' steeds, uprising from the main, With lifted nostrils breathed approaching day.
Mixt with the Trojans, the Rutulian train, Beneath the lofty town-walls on the plain Mark out the lists, and mid-way in the ring, Their braziers set, as common rites ordain.
These, apron-girt and crowned with vervain, bring Fire for the turf-piled hearths, and water from the spring.
XVII.