Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despiteBoasts to your leman made.What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postponeThe day of doom to Troy and Troy's proud dames,Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,Wrapp'd in Achaenan flames.”

O lovelier than the lovely dameThat bore you, sentence as you pleaseThose scurril verses, be it flameYour vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.Not Cybele, nor he that hauntsRich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,Not Bacchus, nor the CorybantsClash their loud gongs with fiercer soundsThan savage wrath; nor sword nor spearAppals it, no, nor ocean's frown,Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter In hideous ruin crashing down.