Straight as he feels in his eyeball the lance, growing mightly sulky,
At ’em he comes in a rage, ora minax, lingua trusulca.
“Starn all,” cry the sailors at once, for they think he has certainly caught ’em,
Præsentemque viris intentant omnia mortem.
But the bold skipper exclaims, “O terque quaterque beati!
Now with a will dare viam, when I want you, be only parati;
This hoss feels like raising his hair, and in spite of his scaly old cortex,
Full soon you shall see that his corpse rapidus vorat æquore vortex.”
Hoc ait, and choosing a lance: “With this one I think I shall hit it,
He cries, and straight into his mouth, ad intima viscera mittit.”