“The life you boasted to that javelin given, Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heaven, To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown, Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own. Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind, And with false terrors sink another’s mind. But know, whatever fate I am to try, By no dishonest wound shall Hector die. I shall not fall a fugitive at least, My soul shall bravely issue from my breast. But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart.”