“While thus I spoke, he look’d with stern disdain, Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain, Which thus break forth: ‘This arm decides our right, Vanquish’d in words, be mine the prize in fight.’

“Bold he rush’d on. My honour to maintain, I fling my verdant garments on the plain, My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare, And with bent hands expect the furious war. O’er my sleek skin now gather’d dust he throws, And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows: Oft he my neck and nimble legs assails; He seems to grasp me, but as often fails; Each part he now invades with eager hand, Safe in my bulk immoveable I stand; So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar, Against some mole that stretches from the shore, The firm foundation lasting tempests braves, Defies the warring winds and driving waves.