Shrill sounds her scorpion lash, as, foaming, thus she cries:

LXII. "Behold me, worn with dotage! me, whom age
Hath rusted, and, while monarchs fight, would scare
With empty fears! Behold me in my rage!
I come, the Furies' minister; see there,
War, death and havoc in these hands I bear."
Full at his breast a firebrand, as she spoke,
Black with thick smoke, but bright with lurid glare,
The Fiend outflung. In terror he awoke,
And o'er his bones and limbs a clammy sweat outbroke.

LXIII. "Arms, arms!" he yells, and searches for his sword
In couch and chamber, maddening at the core
With war's fierce passion, and the lust abhorred
Of slaughter, and with bitter wrath yet more.
As when a wood-fire crackles with fierce roar,
Heaped round a caldron, and the simmering stream
Foams, fumes, and bubbles, and at last boils o'er,
And upward shoots the mingled smoke and steam;
So Turnus boils with wrath, so dire his rage doth seem.

LXIV. Choice youths he sends, to let Latinus know
The peace was torn, then musters his array
To guard Italia and expel the foe.
Let Trojans league with Latins as they may,
Himself can match them, and he comes to slay.
So saying, his vows he renders. Ardour fires
The fierce Rutulians, and each hails the fray;
And one his youth, and one his grace admires,