to tell him that she loved him. A dozen times she thought

Pannonian, fiercer for the wound received,

Maddened by dart from Libyan thong propelled,

Turns circling on her wound, and still pursues

The weapon fleeing as she whirls around.

Thus, in his rage destroyed, his shapeless face

Stood foul with crimson flow. The victors' shout

Glad to the sky arose; no greater joy

A little blood could give them had they seen