was swelling in spirit to the stars, with an assured hope
of gray hairs and length of days—when Tarquitus, in the
pride of gleaming armour, borne by the nymph Dryope
to woodland Faunus, crossed his fiery path. Drawing 25
back his spear, he hampers the corselet and the buckler’s
weighty mass; then he sweeps to the ground the head,
as the lips were vainly praying and essaying to say a
thousand things, and dashing before him the reeking trunk,
utters thus the fierceness of his heart: “Lie there, doughty 30
warrior! never shall your tender mother give you burial,