“Thy sire, with grieving eyes, beheld his fate, And cried, ‘Not long, loved Crantor, shalt thou wait Thy vow’d revenge.’ At once he said, and threw His ashen spear, which quiver’d as it flew; With all his force and all his soul applied, The sharp point enter’d in the centaur’s side: Both hands to wrench it out the monster join’d, And wrench’d it output left the steel behind; Stuck in his lungs it stood: enraged he rears His hoofs, and down to ground thy father bears. Thus trampled under foot, his shield defends His head; his other hand the lance portends: Ev’n while he lay extended on the dust, He sped the centaur with one single thrust: Two more his lance before transfix’d from far; And two his sword had slain in closer war. To these was added Dorylas, who spread A bull’s two goring horns round his head: With these he push’d: in blood already died, Him fearless I approach’d, and thus defied: ‘Now, monster, now by proof it shall appear Whether thy horns are sharper, or my spear.’ At this, I threw: for want of other ward, He lifted up his hand, his front to guard: