Not a shaft, nor far-off striking dart Was us’d through all. One fight fell out, of one despiteful heart. Sharp axes, twybills, two-hand swords, and spears with two heads borne, Were then the weapons; fair short swords, with sanguine hilts still worn, Had use in like sort; of which last, ye might have numbers view’d Drop with dissolv’d arms from their hands, as many down-right hew’d From off their shoulders as they fought, their bawdrics cut in twain. And thus the black blood flow’d on earth, from soldiers hurt and slain. When Hector once had seiz’d the ship, he clapt his fair broad hand Fast on the stern, and held it there, and there gave this command: “Bring fire, and all together shout. Now Jove hath drawn the veil From such a day as makes amends, for all his storms of hail; By whose blest light we take those ships, that, in despite of heav’n, Took sea, and brought us worlds of woe, all since our peers were giv’n To such a laziness and fear; they would not let me end Our ling’ring banes, and charge thus home, but keep home and defend, And so they rul’d the men I led. But though Jove then withheld My natural spirit, now by Jove ’tis freed, and thus impell’d.” This more inflam’d them; in so much that Ajax now no more Kept up, he was so drown’d in darts; a little he forbore The hatches to a seat beneath, of sev’n foot long, but thought It was impossible to scape; he sat yet where he fought, And hurl’d out lances thick as hail, at all men that assay’d To fire the ship; with whom he found his hands so overlaid, That on his soldiers thus he cried: “O friends, fight I alone? Expect ye more walls at your backs? Towns rampir’d here are none, No citizens to take ye in, no help of any kind. We are, I tell you, in Troy’s fields; have nought but seas behind, And foes before; far, far from Greece. For shame, obey commands, There is no mercy in the wars; your healths lie in your hands.” Thus rag’d he, and pour’d out his darts. Whoever he espied Come near the vessel arm’d with fire, on his fierce dart he died. All that pleas’d Hector made him mad, all that his thanks would earn; Of which twelve men, his most resolv’d, lay dead before his stern. THE END OF THE FIFTEENTH BOOK. THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE ARGUMENT Achilles, at Patroclus’ suit, doth yield His arms and Myrmidons; which brought to field, The Trojans fly. Patroclus hath the grace Of great Sarpedon’s death, sprung of the race Of Jupiter, he having slain the horse Of Thetis’ son, fierce Pedasus. The force Of Hector doth revenge the much-rued end Of most renown’d Sarpedon on the friend Of Thetides, first by Euphorbus harm’d, And by Apollo’s personal pow’r disarm’d. ANOTHER ARGUMENT In Πι̑ Patroclus bears the chance Of death, impos’d by Hector’s lance.