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Now Arruns, Fate's predestined prize,
Circles Camilla round,
His javelin in his hand, and tries
The easiest way to wound.
Where'er she leads the fierce attack,
He follows, and observes her track:
Where'er she issues from the rout,
He deftly shifts his reins about:
Explores each method of advance,
Wheels round and round, weighs chance with chance,
And shakes the inevitable lance.
Just then rich Chloreus, priest of yore
To Cybele, bedizened o'er
With Phrygian armour shone,
And spurred afield his charger bold,
A chainwork cloth with clasp of gold
Around its body thrown.
He, clad in purple's wealthiest grain,
The work of looms beyond the main,
Launches untiring on the foe
Gortynian shafts from Cretan bow:
Behind a golden quiver sounds,
A helm of gold his head surrounds:
His saffron scarf, with gold confined,
Flaunts, light and rustling, in the wind:
And hose of gay barbaric wear
And broidered vest his race declare.
Perchance the huntress sought to gain
Troy's spoils, to deck a Volscian fane;
Perchance herself she would adorn
In that bright gold, so proudly worn:
Whate'er the cause, from all about
She singles, follows, tracks him out,
And winds him through the embattled field,
Her eyes to coming danger sealed,