The god was wroth, the colour left his look, The wreath his head, the harp his hand, forsook; His silver bow and feather’d shafts he took, And lodged an arrow in the tender breast That had so often to his own been press’d. Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan’d, And pull’d his arrow reeking from the wound; And, weltering in her blood, thus faintly cried: “Ah, cruel god! though I have justly died, What has, alas! my unborn infant done, That he should fall, and two expire in one?” This said, in agonies she fetch’d her breath.