I with the Nymphs will haunt Mount Maenalus,

Or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold

But I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades,

Parthenius. Even now, methinks, I range

O'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launch

Cydonian arrows from a Parthian bow.-

As if my madness could find healing thus,

Or that god soften at a mortal's grief!