LXXV. Sheathed in bright arms, proud Tarquitus in scorn, Whom Dryope the nymph, if fame be true, To Faunus, ranger of the woods, had borne, Leaped forth, and at the fiery Dardan flew. He, drawing back his javelin, aimed and threw. And through the cuirass and the ponderous shield Pinned him. Then, vainly as he strove to sue, Much pleading, even while the suppliant kneeled. Lopt off, the lifeless head went rolling on the field. LXXVI. His reeking trunk the victor in disdain Spurns with his foot, and cries aloud, "Lie there, Proud youth, and tell thy terrors to the slain. No tender mother shall thy shroud prepare, No father's sepulchre be thine to share. Thy carrion corpse shall be the vultures' food, And birds that batten on the dead shall tear Thee piecemeal, and the fishes lick thy blood, Drowned in the deep sea-gulfs, or drifting on the flood." LXXVII. Lucas, Antaeus in the van were slain. Here Numa, there the fair-haired Camers lay, Great Volscens' son; full many a wide domain Was his, and mute Amyclae owned his sway. As when AEgeon, hundred-armed, they say, And hundred-handed, would the Sire withstand, And fifty mouths, and fifty maws each way Shot flames against Jove's thunder, and each hand Clashed on a sounding shield, or bared a glittering brand, LXXVIII. So raves AEneas, victor of the war, His sword now warmed, and many a foeman dies. Now at Niphaeus, in his four-horse car Breasting the battle, in hot haste he flies. Scared stand the steeds, in terror and surprise, So dire his gestures, as he strides amain, So fierce his looks, so terrible his cries; Then, turning, from his chariot on the plain Fling their ill-fated lord, and gallop to the main. LXXIX. With two white steeds into the midmost dashed Bold Lucagus and Liger, brethren twain. Around him Lucagus his broad sword flashed His brother wheeled the horses with the rein. Fired at the sight, AEneas in disdain Rushed on them, towering with uplifted spear. "No steeds of Diomede, nor Phrygian plain," Cries Liger, "nor Achilles' car are here. This field shall end the war, thy fatal hour is near." LXXX. So fly his words, but not in words the foe Makes answer, but his javelin hurls with might. As o'er the lash proud Lucagus bends low To prick the steeds, and planting for the fight His left foot forward, stands in act to smite, Clean through the nether margin of his shield The Dardan shaft goes whistling in its flight, And thrills his groin upon the left. He reeled, And from the chariot fell half-lifeless on the field.