"Cruel, too cruel, is thy forfeit paid, Poor maiden, who the Trojan arms would'st dare; Nor aught availed thee, in the woodland glade To serve Diana, and her arms to wear.
Yet not unhonoured in thy death, nor bare Of fame she leaves thee; nor in after day Shall vengeance fail thy prowess to declare.
Whoso hath dared thy sacred form to slay, His blood shall rue the deed, and fit atonement pay." CVII.

Beneath the hill a barrow chanced to stand, Heaped there of old, and holm-oaks frowned beside Dercennus' tomb, who ruled Laurentum's land.
Here, lightning swift, the lovely Nymph espied, In shining arms, and puffed with empty pride, False Aruns.

"Caitiff! dost thou think to flee?
Why keep aloof?
Turn hitherward!" she cried, "Come here, and die! Camilla claims her fee.
Must Cynthia waste her shafts on worthless knaves like thee ?" CVIII.

Plucking the arrow from her case, she drew The bow, full-stretched, till both the horns unite.
Both arms raised level, ere the missile flew, Her left hand touched the iron point, the right, Pressed to her nipple, strained the bow-string tight.
He hears the arrow whistle as it flies, And feels the wound.

Sweeping on amain, [word missing] Forsakes him.