Then gan he toss aloft his stretched train,
  And therewith scourge the buxom air so sore,
  That to his force to yielden it was fain;
  Nor ought his sturdy strokes might stand afore,
That high trees overthrew, and rocks in pieces tore.

The same advancing high above his head,
  With sharp intended sting so rude him smote,
  That to the earth him drove, as stricken dead,
  Ne living wight would have him life behot:
  The mortal sting his angry needle shot
  Quite through his shield, and in his shoulder ceased,
  Where fast it stuck, nor would there out be got:
  The grief thereof him wondrous sore diseased,
Nor might his rankling pain with patience be appeased.

Book I, Canto XI