With Melicerta on her shoulders, weeping Ino, and Nereids with dishevelled hair, The Glauci, Tritons, and their fellows, leaping They know not whither, speed, some here, some there.
Orlando draws to land, the billows sweeping, That horrid fish, but might his labour spare:
For, with the torment worn, and travel sore, The brute, exhausted, died, ere dragged ashore.
