hic puer e turba volucrum, cui plurimus ignis torre manusque leves numquam frustrata sagitta, agmine de medio tenera sic dulce profatur voce (pharetrati pressere silentia fratres): Scis ut, mater, ait nulla mihi dextera segnis militia.
Then a boy from out the winged multitude, whose brand had most of fire and whose light hands no shaft had ever failed, spoke up thus sweetly from the midst of the company in his childish tone (his quivered brethren kept mum): Mother, you know, says he, that my right hand is never slack in any service;
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book1.json