With grief Lycormas saw him fall, from far, And wresting from the door a massy bar, Full in his poll lays on a load of knocks, Which stun him, and he falls like a devoted ox. Another bar Pelates would have snatch’d, But Corythus his motions slyly watch’d; He darts his weapon from a private stand, And rivets to the post his veiny hand; When straight a missive spear transfix’d his side, By Abas thrown, and, as he hung, he died.