_Æn._ Yet flung I forth, and, desperate of my life, Ran in the thickest throngs, and with this sword Sent many of their savage ghosts to hell. At last came Pyrrhus, fell and full of ire, His harness[472] dropping blood, and on his spear The mangled head of Priam's youngest son; And, after him, his band of Myrmidons, With balls of wild-fire in their murdering paws, Which made the funeral flame that burnt fair Troy; 220 All which hemmed me about, crying, "This is he!" _Dido._ Ah, how could poor Æneas scape their hands? _Æn._ My mother Venus, jealous of my health, Convey'd me from their crookèd nets and bands; So I escaped the furious Pyrrhus' wrath: Who then ran to the palace of the king, And at Jove's altar finding Priamus, About whose withered neck hung Hecuba, Folding his hand in hers, and jointly both Beating their breasts, and falling on the ground, He, with his falchion's point raised up at once, 230 And with Megæra's eyes, star'd in their face, Threatening a thousand deaths at every glance: To whom the agèd king thus, trembling, spoke; "Achilles' son, remember what I was, Father of fifty sons, but they are slain; Lord of my fortune, but my fortune's turned: King of this city, but my Troy is fired; And now am neither father, lord, or king: Yet who so wretched but desires to live? O, let me live, great Neoptolemus!" 240 Not moved at all, but smiling at his tears, This butcher, whilst his hands were yet held up, Treading upon his breast, struck off his hands. _Dido._ O, end, Æneas! I can hear no more.