Loosed was the helm, the neck without its band:
So, like a rush, was severed by the sword.
Down-fell, and shook its last upon the sand The heavy trunk of Libya's mighty lord.
His spirit, which flitted to the Stygian strand, Charon with crooked boat-hook dragged aboard.
On him Orlando wastes no further pain, But, sword in hand, seeks him of Sericane.