ntius took his aim.
Clean through his temples hissed the molten lead,
And prostrate in the dust, the gallant youth lay dead.

LXXVI. Then first, 'tis said, in war Ascanius drew
His bow, wherewith in boyish days he plied
The flying game. His hand Numanus slew,
Called Remulus, to Turnus late allied,
For Turnus' youngest sister was his bride.
He, puffed with new-won royalty and proud,
Stalked in the forefront of the fight, and cried
With random clamour and big words and loud,
Fain by his noise to show his grandeur to the crowd.

LXXVII. "Think ye no shame, poor cowards, thus again
Behind your sheltering battlements to stand,
Twice-captured Phrygians! and to plant in vain
These walls, to shield you from the foemen's hand?
Lo, these the varlets who our wives demand!
What God, what madness blinded you, that e'er
Ye thought to venture to Italia's land?
No wily-worded Ithacan is near;
Far other foes than he or Atreus' sons are here.

LXXVIII. "Our babes are hardened in the frost and flood,
Strong is the stock and sturdy whence we came.
Our boys from morn till evening scour the wood,
Their joy is hunting, and the steed to tame,
To bend the bow, the flying shaft to aim.
Patient of toil, and used to scanty cheer,
Our youths with rakes the stubborn glebe reclaim,
Or storm the town. Through life we grasp the spear.
In war it strikes the foe, in peace it goads the steer.

LXXIX. "Age cannot stale, nor creeping years impair
Stout hearts as ours, nor make our strength decay.
Our hoary heads the heavy helmet bear.
Our joy is in the foray, day by day
To reap fresh plunder, and to live by prey.
Ye love to dance, and dally with the fair,
In saffron robes with purple flounces gay.
Your toil is ease, and indolence your care,
And tunics hung with sleeves, and ribboned coifs ye wear.

LXXX. "Go Phrygian women, for ye are not men!
Hence, to your Dindymus, and roam her heights
With Corybantian eunuchs! Get ye, then,
And hear the flute, harsh-grating, that invites
With twy-mouthed music to her lewd delights,
Where boxen pipe and timbrel from afar
Shriek forth the summons to her sacred rites.
Put by the sword, poor dotards as ye are,
Leave arms to men, like us, nor meddle with the war."

LXXXI. Such taunts Ascanius brooked not. Stung with pride,
A shaft he fitted to the horse-hair twi