To their egression to these wars, yet wilfully they went, For Fates, that order sable death, enforc’d their tragedies. Tydides slew them with his lance, and made their arms his prise. Hypirochus, and Hippodus, Ulysses reft of light. But Jove, that out of Ida look’d, then equalis’d the fight, A Grecian for a Trojan then paid tribute to the Fates. Yet royal Diomed slew one, ev’n in those even debates, That was of name more than the rest, Pæon’s renownéd son, The prince Agastrophus; his lance into his hip did run; His squire detain’d his horse apart, that hinder’d him to fly, Which he repented at his heart, yet did his feet apply His ’scape with all the speed they had alongst the foremost bands, And there his lovéd life dissolv’d. This Hector understands, And rush’d with clamour on the king, right soundly seconded With troops of Trojans. Which perceiv’d by famous Diomed, The deep conceit of Jove’s high will stiffen’d his royal hair, Who spake to near-fought Ithacus: “The fate of this affair Is bent to us. Come let us stand, and bound his violence.” Thus threw he his long jav’lin forth, which smote his head’s defence Full on the top, yet pierc’d no skin; brass took repulse with brass; His helm (with three folds made, and sharp) the gift of Phœbus was. The blow made Hector take the troop, sunk him upon his hand, And strook him blind. The king pursu’d before the foremost band His dart’s recov’ry, which he found laid on the purple plain; By which time Hector was reviv’d, and, taking horse again, Was far commix’d within his strength, and fled his darksome grave. He follow’d with his thirsty lance, and this elusive brave: “Once more be thankful to thy heels, proud dog, for thy escape. Mischief sat near thy bosom now; and now another rape Hath thy Apollo made of thee, to whom thou well mayst pray, When through the singing of our darts thou find’st such guarded way. But I shall meet with thee at length, and bring thy latest hour, If with like favour any God be fautour of my pow’r. Meanwhile some other shall repay, what I suspend in thee.” This said, he set the wretched soul of Pæon’s issue free, Whom his late wound not fully slew. But Priam’s amorous birth Against Tydides bent his bow, hid with a hill of earth, Part of the ruinated tomb for honour’d Ilus built, And as the curace of the slain, engrav’n and richly gilt, Tydides from his breast had spoil’d, and from his shoulders raft His target and his solid helm, he shot, and his keen shaft (That never flew from him in vain) did nail unto the ground The king’s right foot; the spleenful knight laugh’d sweetly at the wound, Crept from his covert, and triumph’d: “Now art thou maim’d,” said he, “And would to God my happy hand had so much honour’d me To have infix’d it in thy breast, as deep as in thy foot, Ev’n to th’ expulsure of thy soul! Then blest had been my shoot Of all the Trojans; who had then breath’d from their long unrests. Who fear thee, as the braying goats abhor the king of beasts.”