“Thus vanquish’d too, a third form still remains, Changed to a bull, my lowing fills the plains: Straight on the left his nervous arms were thrown Upon my brindled neck, and tugg’d it down; Then deep he struck my horn into the sand, And fell’d my bulk along the dusty land: Nor yet his fury cool’d; ’twixt rage and scorn, From my maim’d front he tore the stubborn horn; This, heap’d with flowers and fruits, the Naiads bear, Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year.”

He spoke, when lo! a beauteous nymph appears, Girt, like Diana’s train, with flowing hairs: The horn she brings, in which all autumn’s stored, And ruddy apples for the second board.