"Here, in the brakes and savage dens of beasts, He nursed his daughter from the dugs of mares, Milking their teats into her tender lips. Soon as the infant first with doubtful feet Could press the ground, her little hands he filled With pointed darts, and on her shoulder hung A bow and quiver. No soft caul of gold Her tresses strains; nor flows her waving gown: Instead of these a tiger's horrid hide Hangs from her head, and over her back descends. Darts with her tender hand even then she threw; And, whirling round her head a sounding sling, Struck a Strymonian crane, or snow-white swan."