Tydides raised a stone⁠—a mighty weight, Such as no two men living now could lift; But he, alone, could swing it round with ease. With this he smote Aeneas on the hip, Where the thigh joins its socket. By the blow He brake the socket and the tendons twain, And tore the skin with the rough, jagged stone. The hero fell upon his knees, but stayed His fall with his strong palm upon the ground; And o’er his eyes a shadow came like night.

Then had the king of men, Aeneas, died, But for Jove’s daughter, Venus, who perceived His danger instantly⁠—his mother, she Who bore him to Anchises when he kept His beeves, a herdsman. Round her son she cast Her white arms, spreading over him in folds Her shining robe, to be a fence against The weapons of the foe, lest some Greek knight Should at his bosom aim the steel to take His life. And thus the goddess bore away From that fierce conflict her beloved son.