Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/166

150 Before to farther Fight he wou'd advance, He stood considering, and survey'd his Lance. Doubts if he wielded not a wooden Spear Without a Point: He look'd, the Point was there. This is my Hand, and this my Lance, he said; By which so many thousand Foes are dead. O whether is their usual Virtue fled! I had it once; and the Lyrnessian Wall, And Tenedos, confess'd it in their Fall. Thy Streams, Caicus, rowl'd a Crimson-Flood; And Thebes ran red with her own Natives Blood. Twice Telephus employ'd their Steel, To wound him first, and afterward to heal. The Vigour of this Arm was never vain: And that my wonted Prowess I retain, Witness these Heaps of Slaughter on the Plain. He said; and, doubtful of his former Deeds, To some new Tryal of his Force proceeds. He chose Menætes from among the rest; At him he launched his Spear, and pierc'd his Breast: On the hard Earth the Lycian knock'd his Head, And lay supine; and forth the Spirit fled. Then thus the Hero; neither can I blame The Hand, or Jav'lin; both are still the same. The same I will employ against this Foe, And wish but with the same Success to throw. So spoke the Chief; and while he spoke he threw; The Weapon with unerring Fury flew, At his left Shoulder aim'd: Nor Entrance found; But back, as from a Rock, with swift Rebound Harmless return'd: A bloody Mark appear'd, Which with false Joy the flatter'd Hero chear'd. Wound there was none; the Blood that was in view, The Lance before from slain Menætes drew. Headlong he leaps from off his lofty Car, And in close Fight on Foot renews the War. Raging