Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 1.pdf/330

164 Nor Bits nor Bridles can his Rage restrain; And rugged Rocks are interpos'd in vain: He makes his way o'er Mountains, and contemns Unruly Torrents, and unfoorded Streams. The bristled Boar, who feels the pleasing Wound, New grinds his arming Tusks, and digs the Ground. The sleepy Leacher shuts his little Eyes; About his churning Chaps the frothy bubbles rise: He rubs his sides against a Tree; prepares And hardens both his Shoulders for the Wars. What did the Youth, when Love's unerring Dart Transfixt his Liver; and inflam'd his heart? Alone, by night, his watry way he took; About him, and above, the Billows broke: The Sluces of the Skie were open spread; And rowling Thunder rattl'd o'er his Head. The raging Tempest call'd him back in vain; And every boding Omen of the Main. Nor cou'd his Kindred; nor the kindly Force Of weeping Parents, change his fatal Course. No, not the dying Maid who must deplore His floating Carcass on the Sestian shore. I pass the Wars that spotted Linx's make With their fierce Rivals, for the Females sake: The howling Wolves, the Mastiffs amorous rage; When ev'n the fearsul Stag dares for his Hind engage. But far above the rest, the furious Mare, Barr'd from the Male, is frantick with despair.