"I leave such vestige wheresoe'er I tread, The volleyed thunder leaves not worse below."
He had thrown back, over Frontino's head, The courser's gilded reins, in saying so, Backed him, and left Hippalca sore bested;
Who, bathed in tears, and goaded by her woe, Cries shame on him, and threats the king with ill:
Rodomont hearkens not, and climbs the hill: