And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow
Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike,
Their ways are different, but their art alike.
Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around
Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound;
A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies,
And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes—
Nor always errs, for oft the gauntlet draws
A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws.
Hoary with age Entellus stands his ground,