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Metamorphoses: Book 8 (Full Text) - Mythopedia
On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn’d With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn’d; Take the reward, says he, of pious dread: Then with a blow lopp’d off his parted head. No longer check’d, the wretch his crime pursu’d, Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew’d; When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard,
