Lo, full at Pharus, in his bawling mouth He plants a dart.

Thou, Cydon, too, in quest Of Clytius, blooming with the down of youth, Thy latest joy, had'st laid thy loves to rest, Slain by the Dardan; but around thee pressed Old Phorcus' sons.

Seven brethren bold are there, Seven darts they throw.

These helm and shield arrest, Those, turned aside by Venus' gentle care Just graze the Dardan's frame, and, grazing, glance in air.
XLV.

Then cried AEneas to Achates true, "Quick, hand me store of weapons; none in vain This arm shall hurl at yon Rutulian crew, Not one of all that whilom knew the stain Of Argive blood upon the Trojan plain." So saying, he snatched, and in a moment threw His mighty spear, that, hurtling, rent in twain The brazen plates of Maeon's shield, and through The breastplate pierced the breast, nor faltered as it flew.
XLVI.