But lo! from far A Cretan archer's shaft, more sure of aim Than vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva's brow To light within his eye: the hero tugs Intrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaft Forth with the eyeball, and with dauntless heel Treads them to dust.

Not otherwise a bear 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 That Caesar's self was wounded.

Down he pressed Deep in his soul the anguish, and, with mien, No longer bent on fight, submissive cried, "Spare me, ye citizens; remove the war Far hence: no weapons now can haste my death; Draw from my breast the darts, but add no more.
Yet raise me up to place me in the camp Of Magnus, living: this your gift to him; No brave man's death my title to renown, But Caesar's flag deserted." So he spake.
Unhappy Aulus thought his words were true, Nor saw within his hand the pointed sword; And leaping forth in haste to make his own The prisoner and his arms, in middle throat Received the lightning blade.

By this one death Rose Scaeva's valour again; and thus he cried, Such be the punishment of all who thought Great Scaeva vanquished; if Pompeius seeks Peace from this reeking sword, low let him lay At Caesar's feet his standards.