And singly vanquished the Cadmæan race.
Him great Tydides urges to contend,
Warm with the hopes of conquest for his friend:
Officious with the cincture girds him round;
And to his wrists the gloves of death are bound.
Amid the circle now each champion stands,
And poises high in air his iron hands:
With clashing gauntlets now they fiercely close,
Their crackling jaws re-echo to the blows,
And painful sweat from all their members flows.