men ye are not—get you to the heights of Dindymus,
where the pipe utters its two-doored note to your accustomed
ears. The Idæan mother’s cymbals, the Berecyntian
flute, are calling you to the revel; leave arms to 35
men, and meddle no more with steel.”
Such boasting and such ill-omened talk Ascanius could
bear no longer; setting his breast to the bow-string of
horsehair he levelled his dart, and drawing his arms wide
apart he stood, having first invoked Jove thus in suppliant
prayer: “Jove Almighty, smile on my bold essay; with