These words he seconds with his flying lance, To meet whose point was strong Deicoon’s chance: Æneas’ friend, and in his native place Honour’d and loved like Priam’s royal race: Long had he fought the foremost in the field, But now the monarch’s lance transpierced his shield: His shield too weak the furious dart to stay, Through his broad belt the weapon forced its way: The grisly wound dismiss’d his soul to hell, His arms around him rattled as he fell.