Sparks now his shield, now helm, now cuirass scatter, While straight and back strokes, aimed now low, now high, Which good Rogero's head and bosom batter, And arms, by thousands and by thousands fly Faster than on the sounding farm-roof patter Hailstones descending from a troubled sky.
Rogero, at his ward, with dexterous care, Defends himself, and ne'er offends the fair.
