Two spears from Meleager’s hand were sent, With equal force, but various in the event; The first was fix’d in earth, the second stood On the boar’s bristled back, and deeply drank his blood. Now, while the tortured savage turns around And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound, The wound’s great author, close at hand, provokes His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes, Wheels as he wheels, and, with his pointed dart, Explores the nearest passage to his heart: Quick, and more quick, he spins in giddy gyres, Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires. This act, with shouts heaven-high, the friendly band Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor’s hand. Then all approach the slain, with vast surprise Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies, And, scarce secure, reach out their spears afar, And blood their points to prove their partnership of war.