In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to face, And, simply prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand. He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt His manly soul with greater compassion melt; When, casting down a informal glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter’d on his aspect, The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore From loss of life Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries (Flames, even as he spoke, came flashing from his eyes) “Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou artwork, in trophies of my buddy? To his unhappy soul a thankful
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