What each man feared would happen to himself, did not trouble him when he saw that it would ruin another.
Why are you mangling me, Aeneas? Spare my body. I am buried here. Do spare the profanation of your pious hands. I am no stranger to you; I am Trojan. The blood you see does not flow from a stem. Flee from these cruel lands, this greedy shore, for I am Polydorus; here an iron harvest of lances covered my pierced body.
Straightway throughout the Libyan cities flies rumor—the report of evil things than which nothing is swifter; it flourishes by its very activity and gains new strength by its movements; small at first through fear, it soon raises itself aloft and sweeps onward along the earth. Yet its head reaches the clouds. A huge and horrid monster covered with many feathers: and for every plume a sharp eye, for every pinion a biting tongue. Everywhere its voices sound, to everything its ears are open.