on milk from the breast of an untamed mare, squeezing
the udder into her tender lips. And soon as the child
first stood on her feet, he armed her hands with a pointed
javelin, and hung from her baby shoulder a quiver and a 10
bow. For the golden brooch in her hair, for the long
sweeping mantle, there hang from her head adown her
back a tiger’s spoils. Even then she launched with tiny
hand her childish missiles, swung round her head the sling’s
well-turned thong, and brought down a crane from Strymon 15
or a snow-white swan. Many a mother in Tyrrhene