Just then the hero cast a doleful cry, And in those absent flames began to fry; The blind contagion raged within his veins, But he with manly patience bore his pains: He fear’d not fate, but only grieved to die Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry. “Happy Ancaeus,” thrice aloud he cried, “With what becoming fate in arms he died!” Then call’d his brothers, sisters, sire, around, And her to whom his nuptial vows were bound, Perhaps his mother; a long sigh he drew, And, his voice failing, took his last adieu; For as the flames augment, and as they stay At their full height, then languish to decay, They rise and sink by fits, at last they soar In one bright blaze, and then descend no more; Just so his inward heats, at height, impair, Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul in air.