Now rushes to the feast the nuptial tide —
Centaurs and warriors drunken, bold and fair;
And flesh heroic, in the torches' glare,
Immingles with the Cloud's sons' tawny hide.

Jests, tumult ... Screams ... 'Gainst black-haired breast the Bride,
Her purple rended, struggles in despair,
To hoofs' hard blows the bronze rings through the air,
While crashes down the table in its pride.

Then one upsprings to whom the mightiest bow;
A lion's muffle frowns upon his brow,
Bristling with hairs of gold. 'Tis Hercules.

Whereat, from end to end of that vast space,
Cowed by the fury of his wrathful face,
The monstrous, guilty troop, loud snorting, flees.