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 its mouth ad intima viscera mittit.
Screeches the crittur in pain, and writhes till the sea is commotum,
As if all its waves had been lash’d in a tempest per Eurum et Notum;
Interea terrible shindy Neptunus sensit, et alto
Prospiciens sadly around, wiped his eye with the cuff of his paletôt;
And mad at his favourite’s fate, of oaths utter’d two or three thousand,
Such as, Corpo di Bacco! Mehercule! Sacré! Mille tonnerres! Potztausend!