Polluted with a savage Centaur’s mortal dart.
VII.
From this sweet innocent repast,
(Too exquisite, alas! to last)
Let’s ever banish the rude din of arms,
Frightful Bellona, and her dread alarms.
The dire confusions of pernicious war,
The satyrs, fauns, and Bacchus, all abhor.
Curs’d be those sanguinary mortals, who
Of reeking blood with crimson tides