Practice Typing

Too late, O friend. my rashness I deplore; These shafts, once fatal, carry death no more. Tydeus and Atreus sons their points have found, And undissembled gore pursued the wound. In vain they bleed. this unavailing bow Serves, not to slaughter, but provoke the foe. In evil hour these bended horns I strung, And seized the quiver where it idly hung. Cursed be the fate that sent me to the field Without a warriors arms, the spear and shield.