“While thus the boaster exercised his pride, The fatal spear of Caeneus reach’d his side; Just in the mixture of the kinds it ran, Between the nether beast and upper man: The monster, mad with rage, and stung with smart, His lance directed at the hero’s heart: It struck; but bounded from his hardened breast, Like hail from tiles, which the safe house invest: Nor seem’d the stroke with more effect to come, Than a small pebble falling on a drum. He next his falchion tried, in closer fight; But the keen falchion had no power to bite: He thrust; the blunted point return’d again; ‘Since downright blows,’ he cried, ‘and thrusts are vain, I’ll prove his side:’ in strong embraces held, He proved his side; his side the sword repell’d: His hollow belly echoed to the stroke, Untouch’d his body as a solid rock: Aim’d at his neck, at last the blade in shivers broke.