When Lycabas his Athis thus beheld, How was his heart with friendly horror fill’d! A youth so noble, to his soul so dear, To see his shapeless look, his dying groans to hear! He snatch’d the bow the boy was used to bend, And cried, “With me, false traitor, dare contend; Boast not a conquest o’er a child, but try Thy strength with me, who all thy powers defy, Nor think so mean an act a victory.” While yet he spoke he flung the whizzing dart, Which pierced the plaited robe, but miss’d his heart. Perseus defied, upon him fiercely press’d With sword unsheathed, and plunged it in his breast: His eyes o’erwhelm’d with night, he stumbling falls, And with his latest breath on Athis calls; Pleased that so near the lovely youth he lies, He sinks his head upon his friend, and dies.