As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:
“Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome”: his bloody brow
With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he goes,
Like to a harvest-man that’s tasked to mow
Or all or lose his hire.
Virgilia. His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!
Volumnia. Away, you fool! it more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba,