I tell, besides, how that too cautious man,
Who earn'd deserved hate from every woman,
Stricken by a random shot, did not escape
Nocturnal pangs of Love; but wander'd o'er
The Macedonian hills and valleys green,
Smitten with love for fair Argea, who
Kept Archelaus' house, till the angry god
Found a fit death for cold Euripides,
Striving with hungry hounds in vain for life.
Then there's the man whom, mid Cythera's rocks,