Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew, Whom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw. As when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train, Stoops from above, incumbent on the main; Where’er he flies, he drives the rack before, And rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore: So, where resistless Turnus takes his course, The scatter’d squadrons bend before his force; His crest of horses’ hair is blown behind By adverse air, and rustles in the wind. This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain, And, as the chariot roll’d along the plain, Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein. Thus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold, The coursers frighted, and their course controll’d. The lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung, And pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along, And only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and held Against his threat’ning foe his ample shield; Then call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies revers’d; the victor king descends, And strikes so justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. Resolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart, He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No readier way he found To draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound. Eager of fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling friends obey. Iapis was at hand to prove his art, Whose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart, That, for his love, he proffer’d to bestow His tuneful harp and his unerring bow. The pious youth, more studious how to save His aged sire, now sinking to the grave, Preferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praise Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays. Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd. The fam’d physician tucks his robes around With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. With gentle touches he performs his part, This way and that, soliciting the dart, And exercises all his heav’nly art. All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use, He presses out, and pours their noble juice. These first infus’d, to lenify the pain, He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he pray’d: The patron of his art refus’d his aid.