Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew,
The Centaur's back admits the feathered wood,
And thro' his breast the barbed arrow stood,
Which when in anguish, thro' the flesh he tore
From both the wounds gushed forth the spumy gore,
Mixed with the Lernæan venom, this he took,
Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook,
His garment, in the reeking purple dyed
To rouse love's passion, he presents the bride."
Ovid.