Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/107

 Book IV. Fit their light claws, in crouds their King enclose,

Circling his tent, and call aloud their foes.

Soon as the clear and cloudless skies invite,

Forth from the gates they rush, they mix in fight:

Air rustles wide; in one vast orb they're seen

Condens'd; their tumbling bodies strow the green:

Not thicker falls the rattling hail; nor pours

From the shook oak the mast in equal show'rs.

Thro' the mid armies with conspicuous wings

Flash, great of soul, tho' small of size, the Kings;

Resolv'd the fortune of the day to try,

Till the strong victor force the weak to fly.

Toss up a little dust, the tumults cease;

And all the fierce contention sinks to peace.

Soon as the Chiefs shall from the field retire,

Let the worse fall a victim to your ire,

A worthless waster, and the public bane;

Alone, unrivall'd, let the better reign.

With gold all-speckled, of majestic mien,

And glossy scales, superior this is seen;

That foul with sloth, inglorious thro' the throng

Drags languidly his bloated bulk along.

Nor less the subjects of two sorts appear:

Some rough and filthy, like a Traveller, Who