cum leo possedit nudataque viscera fodit 210
unguibus et rabiem totos exegit in armos:
stat crassa turpis sanie nodosque iubarum
excutit et viles pastorum despicit iras.
“Ignavi domitor vulgi, deterrime fratrum,”
When Trinacria beneath Pluto’s stroke loosed her rocky bonds and yawned wide with cavernous cleft, sudden fear seized upon the sky. The stars deserted their accustomed courses; the Bear bathed him in forbidden Ocean; terror hurried sluggish Boötes to his setting; Orion trembled. Atlas paled as he heard the neighing coursers; their smoky breath obscures the bright heavens and the sun’s orb affrighted them, so long fed on darkness. They stood biting the curb astonied at the brighter air, and struggle to turn the chariot and hurry back to dread Chaos. But soon, when they felt the lash on their backs and learned to bear the sun’s brightness, they gallop on more rapidly than a winter torrent and more fleet than the hurtling spear; swifter than the Parthian’s dart, the south wind’s fury or nimble thought of anxious mind. Their bits are warm with blood, their death-bringing breath infects the air, the polluted dust is poisoned with their foam.
The Nymphs fly in all directions; Proserpine is hurried away in the chariot, imploring aid of the goddesses. Now Pallas unveils the Gorgon’s head, Diana strings her bow and hastes to help. Neither yields to her uncle’s violence; a common virginity compels them to fight and enrages them at the crime of the fierce ravisher. Pluto is like a lion when he has seized upon a heifer, the pride of the stall and the herd, and has torn with his claws the defenceless flesh and has sated his fury on all its limbs, and so stands all befouled with clotted blood and shakes his tangled mane and scorns the shepherds’ feeble rage.
“Lord of the strengthless dead,” cries Pallas,