Thrice round AEneas leftward he careers, Raining his darts.

Thrice, shifting round, each way The Trojan bears the forest of his spears.
At length, impatient of the long delay, And tired with plucking all the shafts away, Pondering awhile, and by the ceaseless blows Hard pressed, and chafing at the unequal fray, Forth springs AEneas, and betwixt the brows Full at the warrior-steed a fatal javelin throws.
CXX.

Up rears the steed, and paws the air in pain, Then, following on his falling rider, lies And pins him with his shoulder to the plain.
Shouts from each host run kindling through the skies.
Forth springs AEneas, glorying in his prize, And plucks the glittering falchion from his thigh, "Where now is fierce Mezentius?
where," he cries, "That fiery spirit ?" Then, with upturned eye, Gasping, with gathered sense, the Tuscan made reply: CXXI.

"Stern foe! why taunt and threaten?
'twere no shame To slay me.

No such covenant to save His sire made Lausus; nor for this I came.
One boon I ask--if vanquished men may crave The victor's grace--a burial for the brave.
My people hate me; I have lived abhorred; Shield me from them with Lausus in the grave." This said, his throat he offered to the sword, And o'er his shining arms life's purple stream was poured..