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A woman's weapon shall unteach
Your misproud tribe that boastful speech:
Yet take this glory to your grave,
Camilla's hand your death-wound gave.'
Orsilochus and Butes then
(In Troy's great host no huger men)
Their lives successive yield:
Butes she pierces in the rear
With her inevitable spear,
The corslet and the helm between,
Just where the sitter's neck is seen
And hangs the left-hand shield:
Orsilochus she traps by guile:
She flies and he pursues the while,
Till, as in narrowing rings he wheels,
Each treads upon the other's heels:
Then, rising to the stroke, she drives
Her weighty battle-axe, and rives
The helmet and the crown,
E'en as he sues for grace: again
The blow descends: the spattered brain
The severed cheeks runs down.
Now Aunus' warrior son by chance
Meets her, and quails before her glance,
Not meanest of Liguria's breed,
While fate allowed his tricks to speed.
So, when he sees no means to fly
Or put that dreadful presence by,
What artifice can do he tries,
And thus with feigned defiance cries:
'Good sooth, 'tis chivalry indeed:
A woman trusts her mettled steed!
Come now, discard those means of flight,
And gird you for an equal fight:
Stand face to face, you soon shall see
Whom boasting favours, you or me.'