~ cf. Aeneid 12.412 ff; Ex. 3.8 ~

Winged by a bow shot, shivering bracken,
the burning bush and the fern, through covert
and brake, dart-flanked, gules streaking argent
and vert, stumbles, and dashes —

the hart, after dittany, to coax the serpent
arrow deep lodged from the seething flesh —
and so the atitanologist breaks back
toward Lucina’s quiver, seeking in rock and

fissure the saying that will charm the heart
and unlace the soul’s fatigue. En elle tout
est dictame. This is all he knows. Incendiary,

the unburnt bramble spells out the racer
in the flank : flagror non
consumor. Hark, Pharaoh Petrarch — the hunt!