Bred by his father in the Martian grove, Where the fat altars of Palicus flame, And sent in arms to purchase early fame. Him when he spied from far, the Tuscan king Laid by the lance, and took him to the sling, Thrice whirled the thong around his head, and threw; The heated lead half melted as it flew: It pierced his hollow temples and his brain; The youth came tumbling down, and spurned the plain. Then young Ascanius, who, before this day, Was wont in woods to shoot the savage prey, First bent in martial strife the twanging bow, And exercised against a human foe-- With this bereft Numanus of his life, Who Turnus' younger sister took to wife. Proud of his realm, and of his royal bride, } Vaunting before his troops, and lengthened with a stride, } In these insulting terms the Trojans he defied:-- } "Twice-conquered cowards! now your shame is shown-- Cooped up a second time within your town! Who dare not issue forth in open field, But hold your walls before you for a shield. Thus threat you war? thus our alliance force? What gods, what madness, hither steered your course? You shall not find the sons of Atreus here, Nor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear. Strong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood, We bear our new-born infants to the flood; There bathed amid the stream, our boys we hold, With winter hardened, and inured to cold. They wake before the day to range the wood, Kill ere they eat, nor taste unconquered food. No sports, but what belong to war, they know-- To break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow. Our youth, of labour patient, earn their bread; Hardly they work, with frugal diet fed. From ploughs and harrows sent to seek renown, They fight in fields, and storm the shaken town. No part of life from toils of war is free, No change in age, or difference in degree. We plough and till in arms: our oxen feel, Instead of goads, the spur and pointed steel: The inverted lance makes furrows in the plain. Even time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain-- The body, not the mind--nor can controul The immortal vigour, or abate the soul. Our helms defend the young, disguise the grey: We live by plunder, and delight in prey. Your vests embroidered with rich purple shine; In sloth you glory, and in dances join. Your vests have sweeping sleeves: with female pride, Your turbans underneath your chins are tied. Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus agen! Go, less than women, in the shapes of men! Go! mixed with eunuchs in the Mother's rites, (Where with unequal sound the flute invites,) Sing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Ida's shade: Resign the war to men, who know the martial trade." This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear With patience, or a vowed revenge forbear.