“Vain boaster! cease, and know the powers divine! Jove’s and Apollo’s is this deed, not thine; To heaven is owed whate’er your own you call, And heaven itself disarm’d me ere my fall. Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might, Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight: By fate and Phœbus was I first o’erthrown, Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own. But thou, imperious! hear my latest breath; The gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death: Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I; Black fate o’erhangs thee, and thy hour draws nigh; Even now on life’s last verge I see thee stand, I see thee fall, and by Achilles’ hand.”