When day declines, and feasts renew the night, Still on his face she feeds her famish’d sight; She longs again to hear the prince relate His own adventures and the Trojan fate.
The famish’d lion thus, with hunger bold, O’erleaps the fences of the nightly fold, And tears the peaceful flocks: with silent awe Trembling they lie, and pant beneath his paw.
Was’t on this face my famish’d eyes I fed?
…who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plainHe runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws; The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmear’d with blood,…
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I’m famished. I need something to eat.
The prisoners were famished and exhausted, but if they stopped marching, they were shot on the spot.