If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes, Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.” From somewhere he produced the gloves of Eryx And tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy, Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron. The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders, Wanting no part of gloves like these; Aeneas Inspects them, turning them slowly, over and over, And old Entellus adds a word of comment:-- “Why, these are nothing! What if you had seen The gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here. These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him. You still can see the blood and a splash of brains That stained them long ago. I used to wear them Myself when I was younger, and unchallenged By Time, that envious rival. But if Dares Declines these arms, all right, make matters equal, Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx, You put the Trojan gloves aside; Aeneas Will see fair play, Acestes be my second.” He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders, Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great muscles A giant in the ring. Aeneas brings them Matched pairs of gloves. They take their stand, each rising On the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rolling Their heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead, They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger, Is much the better in footwork; old Entellus Has to rely on strength; his knees are shaky, His wind not what it was. They throw their punches, And many miss; and some, with a solid thump, Land on the ribs or chest; temples and ears Feel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattle When a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed, Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body, The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting, Like one who artfully attacks a city, Tries this approach, then that, dancing around him In varied vain attack. Entellus, rising, Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it), And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside; Entellus lands on nothing but the wind And, thrown off balance, heavily comes down Flat on his face, as falls on Erymanthus A thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on. Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians both Rise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven; Acestes rushes in, to raise his comrade In pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighter Is not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary; His rage is terrible, and his shame awakens A consciousness of strength. He chases Dares All over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punches Rattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares, Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts him Straight with the other again. At last Aeneas Steps in and stops it, with a word of comfort For the exhausted Dares:--“Luckless fellow,