These two, in vain resisting, from their car Tydides hurl’d; then stripp’d their arms, and bade His followers lead their horses to the ships. Him when Æneas saw amid the ranks Dealing destruction, through the fight and throng Of spears he plung’d, if haply he might find The godlike Pandarus; Lycaon’s son He found, of noble birth and stalwart form, And stood before him, and address’d him thus: “Where, Pandarus, are now thy winged shafts, Thy bow, and well-known skill, wherein with thee Can no man here contend? nor Lycia boasts, Through all her wide-spread plains, a truer aim; Then raise to Jove thy hands, and with thy shaft Strike down this chief, whoe’er he be, that thus Is making fearful havoc in our host, Relaxing many a warrior’s limbs in death: If he be not indeed a God, incens’d Against the Trojans for neglected rites; For fearful is the vengeance of a God.” Whom answer’d thus Lycaon’s noble son: “Æneas, chief and councillor of Troy, Most like in all respects to Tydeus’ son He seems; his shield I know, and visor’d helm, And horses; whether he himself be God, I cannot tell; but if he be indeed The man I think him, Tydeus’ valiant son, He fights not thus without the aid of Heav’n; But by his side, his shoulders veiled in cloud, Some God attends his steps, and turns away The shaft that just hath reach’d him; for ev’n now A shaft I shot, which by the breastplate’s joint Pierc’d his right shoulder through: full sure I deem’d That shaft had sent him to the shades, and yet It slew him not; ’tis sure some angry God. Nor horse have I, nor car on which to mount; But in my sire Lycaon’s wealthy house Elev’n fair chariots stand, all newly built, Each with its cover; by the side of each Two steeds on rye and barley white are fed; And in his well-built house, when here I came, Lycaon, aged warrior, urg’d me oft With horses and with chariots high upborne, To lead the Trojans in the stubborn fight; I hearken’d not—’twere better if I had— Yet fear’d I lest my horses, wont to feed In plenty unstinted, by the soldiers’ wants Might of their custom’d forage be depriv’d; I left them there, and hither came on foot, And trusting to my bow: vain trust, it seems; Two chiefs already have I struck, the sons Of Tydeus and of Atreus; with true aim Drawn blood from both, yet but increas’d their rage. Sad was the hour when down from where it hung I took my bow, and hasting to the aid Of godlike Hector, hither led my troops; But should I e’er return, and see again My native land, my wife, my lofty hall, Then may a stranger’s sword cut off my head, If with these hands I shatter not, and burn, The bow that thus hath fail’d me at my need.”