Lies safe, protected, nor doth spear avail

To reach the fount of blood. Unnumbered wounds

By arrow dealt, or lance, thus fail to slay

This single warrior. But lo! from far

A Cretan archer's shaft, more sure of aim

Than vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva's brow

To light within his eye: the hero tugs

Intrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaft