Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 3.djvu/309

Æn. XII. He lops the Head. The Latian Fields are drunk With streams that issue from the bleeding Trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded Prince is forc'd to leave the Field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often try'd, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, Conduct him to his Tent: Scarce can he rear His Limbs from Earth, supported on his Spear. Resolv'd in Mind, regardless of the Smart, He tugs with both his Hands, and breaks the Dart. The Steel remains. No readier way he found To draw the Weapon, than t' inlarge the Wound. Eager of Fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling Friends obey.
 * Iapis was at hand to prove his Art,

Whose blooming Youth so fir'd Apollo's Heart, That for his Love he proffer'd to bestow His tuneful Harp, and his unerring Bow: The pious Youth, more studious how to save His aged Sire, now sinking to the Grave, Preferr'd the pow'r of Plants, and silent Praise Of healing Arts, before Phœbeian Bays. Prop'd on his Lance the pensive Heroe stood, And heard, and saw unmov'd, the mourning Crowd. The fam'd Physician tucks his Robes around, With ready Hands, and hastens to the Wound. Rh