The inward fire eats the soft marrow away, And the internal wound bleeds on in silence. Unlucky Dido, burning, in her madness Roamed through all the city, like a doe Hit by an arrow shot from far away By a shepherd hunting in the Cretan woods-- Hit by surprise, nor could the hunter see His flying steel had fixed itself in her; But though she runs for life through copse and glade The fatal shaft clings to her side. The Aeneid