Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?"
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies
With scarce recovered sight, he thus replies:—
"Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,
To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
'Tis no dishonour for the brave to die:
Nor came I here with hope of victory;
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design.
As I had used my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band: