butterbump butterbur butterbush
brass, innoxious falls. On Jove the father great Atrides calls, Nor flies
the javelin from his arm in vain, It pierced his throat, and bent him to
the plain Wide through the neck appears the grisly wound, Prone sinks the
warrior, and his arms resound. The shining circlets of his golden hair,
Which even the Graces might be proud to wear, Instarr'd with gems and
gold, bestrow the shore, With dust dishonour'd, and deform'd with gore.