What by weak herd, in fields of Hircany, The tiger does, or Indian Ganges near, Or wolf, by lamb or kid, on heights which lie On Typheus' back, the cruel cavalier Now executes on those, I will not, I
Call phalanxes or squadrons, but a mere Rabble, that I should term a race forlorn, Who but deserved to die ere they were born.
