fathers’ eyes on bridled steeds; as they pas by, the men of Trinacria and Troy murmur in admiration. All have their hair duly crowned with a trimmed garland; each carries two cornel spearshafts tipped wit iron; some have polished quivers on their shoulders; high on the breast around the neck passes a pliant circlet of twisted gold.

Three in number are the troops of horses and three the captains that ride to and fro; each is followed by twice six boys, glittering in tripartite array under their respective trainers. One line of youths in triumphal joy is led by a little Priam, renewing his grandsire’s name – your noble seed, Polites, and destined to swell the Italian race! Him a Thracian horse bears, dappled with spots of white, showing white pasterns as it steps and a white, high-towering brow.