Strappled his fellows; whose misrule Automedon restrains By cutting the intangling gears, and so dissund’ring quite The brave slain beast; when both the rest obey’d, and went foreright. And then the royal combatants fought for the final stroke; When Lycia’s Gen’ral miss’d again, his high-rais’d jav’lin took Above his shoulder empty way. But no such speedless flight Patroclus let his spear perform, that on the breast did light Of his brave foe, where life’s strings close about the solid heart, Impressing a recureless wound; his knees then left their part, And let him fall; when like an oak, a poplar, or a pine, New fell’d by arts-men on the hills, he stretch’d his form divine Before his horse and chariot. And as a lion leaps Upon a goodly yellow bull, drives all the herd in heaps, And, under his unconquer’d jaws, the brave beast sighing dies; So sigh’d Sarpedon underneath this prince of enemies, Call’d Glaucus to him, his dear friend, and said: “Now, friend, thy hands Much duty owe to fight and arms; now for my love it stands Thy heart in much hand to approve that war is harmful; now How active all thy forces are, this one hour’s act must show. First call our Lycian captains up, look round, and bring up all, And all exhort to stand, like friends, about Sarpedon’s fall, And spend thyself thy steel for me; for be assur’d no day Of all thy life, to thy last hour, can clear thy black dismay In woe and infamy for me, if I be taken hence Spoil’d of mine arms, and thy renown despoil’d of my defence. Stand firm then, and confirm thy men.” This said, the bounds of death Concluded all sight to his eyes, and to his nosthrils breath. Patroclus, though his guard was strong, forc’d way through ev’ry doubt, Climb’d his high bosom with his foot, and pluck’d his jav’lin out, And with it drew the film and strings of his yet panting heart; And last, together with the pile, his princely soul did part. His horse, spoil’d both of guide and king, thick snoring and amaz’d, And apt to flight, the Myrmidons made nimbly to, and seiz’d. Glaucus, to hear his friend ask aid, of him past all the rest, Though well he knew his wound uncur’d, confusion fill’d his breast Not to have good in any pow’r, and yet so much good will. And (laying his hand upon his wound, that pain’d him sharply still, And was by Teucer’s hand set on from their assail’d steep wall, In keeping hurt from other men) he did on Phœbus call, The God of med’cines, for his cure: “Thou King of cures,” said he, “That art perhaps in Lycia with her rich progeny, Or here in Troy; but any where, since thou hast pow’r to hear, O give a hurt and woeful man, as I am now, thine ear. This arm sustains a cruel wound, whose pains shoot ev’ry way, Afflict this shoulder, and this hand, and nothing long can stay A flux of blood still issuing; nor therefore can I stand With any enemy in fight, nor hardly make my hand Support my lance; and here lies dead the worthiest of men,