But that all-chilling breath shall pierce within.
Not his rough hide can then the ox avail:
The long-hair’d goat defenceless feels the gale:
Yet vain the north-wind’s rushing strength to wound
The flock, with thickening fleeces fenced around.
He bows the old man, crook’d beneath the storm;
But spares the smooth-skin’d virgin’s tender form.
[99]Yet from bland Venus’ mystic rites aloof,
She safe abides beneath her mother’s roof:
The suppling waters of the bath she swims,