Wrath touches ev’n the gods: the queen of night, Fired with disdain, and jealous of her right, “Unhonour’d though I am, at least,” said she, “Not unrevenged that impious act shall be.” Swift as the word, she sped the boar away, With charge on those devoted fields to prey. No larger bulls the Egyptian pastures feed, And none so large Sicilian meadows breed; His eyeballs glare with fire suffused with blood; His neck shoots up a thickset thorny wood; His bristled back a trench impaled appears, And stands erected, like a field of spears; Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound, And part he churns, and part befoams the ground; For tusks with Indian elephants he strove, And Jove’s own thunder from his mouth he drove; He burns the leaves, the scorching blast invades The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades; Or suff’ring not their yellow beards to rear, He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the year. In vain the barns expect their promised load, Nor barns at home, nor ricks are heap’d abroad In vain the hinds the thrashing-floor prepare, And exercise their flails in empty air.