Dispelled the breathing air, that broke his flight:
Shorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight,
Old Butes' form he took, Anchises' squire,
Now left, to rule Ascanius, by his sire:
}
{ His wrinkled visage, and his hoary hairs,
{ His mien, his habit, and his arms, he wears,
{ And thus salutes the boy, too forward for his years:—
"Suffice it thee, thy father's worthy son,
The warlike prize thou hast already won.