Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer
Returned his answer with his flying spear.
As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends,
Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends,
Prepared for fight—the fatal dart arrives,
And through the border of his buckler drives;
Passed through, and pierced his groin. The deadly wound,
Cast from his chariot, rolled him on the ground:
Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite:—
"Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight;