“O’ermatch’d in strength, to wiles and arts I take, And slip his hold in form of speckled snake, Who, when I writhed in spires my body round, Or show’d my forky tongue with hissing sound, Smiles at my threats: ‘Such foes my cradle knew,’ He cries; ‘dire snakes my infant hand o’erthrew: A dragon’s form might other conquests gain; To war with me you take that shape in vain: Art thou proportion’d to the hydra’s length, Who by his wounds received augmented strength? He raised a hundred hissing heads in air; When one I lopp’d, up sprung a dreadful pair: By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong, Singly I quell’d him, and stretch’d dead along. What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone, To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own?’ He said, and round my neck his hands he cast, And with his straining fingers wrung me fast; My throat he tortured close as pincers clasp; In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp.