He said, and turn’d him of his arms to strip The son of Paeon; but beside the stone That mark’d where men of old had rais’d a mound To Ilus, Dardan’s son, the ancient chief, There crouching, Paris, fair-hair’d Helen’s Lord, Against the son of Tydeus bent his bow. He from the breast of brave Agastrophus Had stripp’d the corslet; from his shoulders broad The buckler, and the helmet from his head, When Paris bent his bow, and not in vain His arrow launch’d; Tydides’ dexter foot Right through it pierc’d, and pinn’d it to the ground. Joyous he laugh’d, and from his hiding place Sprang forth, and thus in tones of triumph cried: “Thou hast it! not in vain my shaft hath flown! Would that, deep buried in thy flank, it touch’d Thy very life! so should our Trojans lose Their panic fear, who now on thee with dread, As bleating goats upon a lion, look.” To whom, unmov’d, the valiant Diomed: “Poor archer, trusting to thy bow alone, Vile sland’rer and seducer! if indeed Thou durst in arms oppos’d to me to stand, Nought would avail thy arrows and thy bow: And now, because thy shaft hath graz’d my foot, Thou mak’st thine empty boast: I heed thee not, More than a woman or a puny child: A worthless coward’s weapon hath no point. ’Tis diff’rent far with me! though light it fall, My spear is sharp, and whom it strikes, it slays. His widow’s cheeks are mark’d with scars of grief, His children orphans; rotting on the ground, Red with his blood, he lies, his fun’ral rites By carrion birds, and not by women paid.” Thus while he spoke, Ulysses, spearman bold, Drew near, and stood before him; he, behind, Sat down protected, and from out his foot The arrow drew; whereat sharp anguish shot Through all his flesh; and mounting on his car He bade his faithful charioteer in haste Drive to the ships, for pain weigh’d down his soul. Alone Ulysses stood; of all the Greeks Not one beside him; all were panic-struck: Then with his spirit, perturb’d, he commun’d thus: “Me miserable! which way shall I choose? ’Twere ill indeed that I should turn to flight By hostile numbers daunted; yet ’twere worse Here to be caught alone; and Saturn’s son With panic fear the other Greeks hath fill’d. Yet why, my soul, admit such thoughts as these? I know that cowards from the battle fly; But he who boasts a warrior’s name, must learn, Wounded or wounding, firmly still to stand.”