In thy sure death, that thou did’st die by me.” While yet he spoke, the dying accents hung In sounds imperfect on his marble tongue: Though changed to stone, his lips he seem’d to stretch, And through the insensate rock would force a speech.

This Eryx saw, but seeing would not own: “The mischief by yourselves,” he cries, “is done; ’Tis your cold courage turns your hearts to stone: Come, follow me; fall on the stripling boy, Kill him, and you his magic arms destroy.” Then rushing on, his arm to strike he rear’d, And marbled o’er his varied frame appear’d.