Of the gadfly—‘the breese’ do the herders of oxen name the thing.
In the forecourt beneath the lintel swiftly his bow did he string:
From his quiver took he a shaft sigh-laden, unshot before:
With swift feet all unmarked hath he passed the threshold o’er, {280}
Keen-glancing around: he hath glided close by Aison’s son:
He hath grasped the string in the midst, and the arrow-notch laid thereon.
Straightway he strained it with both hands sundered wide apart,
And he shot at Medea; and speechless amazement filled her heart.
And the God himself from the high-roofed hall forth-flashing returned
Laughing aloud. Deep down in the maiden’s bosom burned