forked tongues playing in their hissing mouths. We fly
all ways in pale terror: they, in an unswerving column,
make for Laocoon, and first each serpent folds round one 30
of his two sons, clasping the youthful body, and greedily
devouring the poor limbs. Afterwards, as the father comes
to the rescue, weapon in hand, they fasten on him and lash
their enormous spires tight round him—and now twice
folded round his middle, twice embracing his neck with 35
their scaly length, they tower over him with uplifted head
and crest. He is straining with agonizing clutch to pull