Book XVI, 94

Ye rustic ploughmen of Nemea, tremble no more at the deep roaring of the lion, slayer of bulls. It has fallen by the hands of Heracles, the supreme achiever of emprises, its throat strangled by his death-dealing hands. Drive out your flocks to pasture; let Echo, the denizen of the lonely glen, again hear the sound of bleating. And do thou, clothed in the lion-skin, again arm thee with the pelt, appeasing the spite of Hera who hateth her lord’s bastards.