Silent he heard the queen of woods upbraid: Not so Saturnia bore the vaunting maid: But furious thus: “What insolence has driven Thy pride to face the majesty of heaven? What though by Jove the female plague design’d, Fierce to the feeble race of womankind, The wretched matron feels thy piercing dart; Thy sex’s tyrant, with a tiger’s heart? What though tremendous in the woodland chase Thy certain arrows pierce the savage race? How dares thy rashness on the powers divine Employ those arms, or match thy force with mine? Learn hence, no more unequal war to wage—” She said, and seized her wrists with eager rage; These in her left hand lock’d, her right untied The bow, the quiver, and its plumy pride. About her temples flies the busy bow; Now here, now there, she winds her from the blow; The scattering arrows, rattling from the case, Drop round, and idly mark the dusty place. Swift from the field the baffled huntress flies, And scarce restrains the torrent in her eyes: So, when the falcon wings her way above, To the cleft cavern speeds the gentle dove; (Not fated yet to die;) there safe retreats, Yet still her heart against the marble beats.