There, quiver-girt, the Amazonian maid, One bosom bare, amidst the carnage wheeled, Camilla, glorying in the war's grim trade.
Her limber darts she scatters o'er the field, Her arms untired the ponderous axe can wield.
Diana's arrows and the golden bow Sound at her back.

She too, if forced to yield, Fights as she flies, and well the maid doth know With flying shafts hurled back to stay the following foe.
LXXXIV.

Around her, Tulla and Larinia stand, Tarpeia too, with brazen axe bedight, Italians all, the choicest of her band, In peace or war her glory and delight.
So, battling round Hippolyte, unite Her Thracians, when Thermodon's banks afar Ring with their arms.

So rides the maid of might, Penthesilea, in her conquering car, And hosts, with moon-shaped shields, exulting hail the war.
LXXXV.

Whom first, dread maiden, did thy javelin quell?
Whom last?
how many in the dust lay low?
Eunaeus first, the son of Clytius, fell.
Sheer through his breast, left naked to the blow, Ploughed the long fir-shaft, as he faced his foe.
Prone falls the warrior, and in deadly stound Gasps out his life-blood, and the crimson flow Spouts forth in torrents, as he bites the ground, And, dying, grasps the spear, and writhes upon the wound.
LXXXVI.