one through his wound, the other through his mouth
were smoking violently; their smoke met.
Let Lucan now be silent, where he sings of sad Sabellus and Nasidius,
and wait to hear what flies off from my bow.
Let Ovid now be silent, where he tells
of Cadmus, Arethusa; if his verse
has made of one a serpent, one a fountain,
I do not envy him; he never did....