Out swell Dark streams of gore his lovely limbs to stain; The sinking neck weighs o'er the shoulders of the slain.
LVI.

So doth the purple floweret, dying, droop, Smit by the ploughshare.

So the poppy frail On stricken stalk its languid head doth stoop, And bows o'erladen with the drenching hail.
But onward now, through thickest ranks of mail, Rushed Nisus.

Volscens only will he slay; He waits for none but Volscens.

They assail From right and left, and crowd his steps to stay.
He whirls his lightning brand, and presses to his prey.
LVII.