And over them triumphant Death his dart

Shook, but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book xi. Line 491.

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,

No more through rolling clouds to soar again,

View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,

And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 826.

Th' adorning thee with so much art

Is but a barb'rous skill;

'T is like the pois'ning of a dart,

Too apt before to kill.

Abraham Cowley (1618-1667): The Waiting Maid.

The other shape,

If shape it might be call'd that shape had none

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;

Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd,

For each seem'd either,—black it stood as night,

Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,

And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head

The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

Satan was now at hand.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 666.

So in the Libyan fable it is told

That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,

Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,

"With our own feathers, not by others' hands,

Are we now smitten."

Aeschylus (525-456 b c): Frag. 135 (trans. by Plumptre).

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,—

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.

Death, ere thou hast slain another,

Learn'd and fair and good as she,

Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Ben Jonson (1573-1637): Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.