The sequel to the care of Jove I leave, whatever fall.” All this spake good Automedon; then, brandishing his lance, He threw, and strook Aretus’ shield, that gave it enterance Through all the steel, and, by his belt, his belly’s inmost part It pierc’d, and all his trembling limbs gave life up to his dart. Then Hector at Automedon a blazing lance let fly, Whose flight he saw, and falling flat, the compass was too high, And made it stick beyond in earth, th’ extreme part burst, and there Mars buried all his violence. The sword then for the spear Had chang’d the conflict, had not haste sent both th’ Ajaces in, Both serving close their fellows’ call, who, where they did begin, There drew the end. Priamides, Æneas, Chromius (In doubt of what such aid might work) left broken hearted thus Aretus to Automedon, who spoil’d his arms, and said: “A little this revives my life for him so lately dead, Though by this nothing countervail’d.” And with this little vent Of inward grief, he took the spoil; with which he made ascent Up to his chariot, hands and feet of bloody stains so full That lion-like he look’d, new turn’d from tearing up a bull. And now another bitter fight about Patroclus grew, Tear-thirsty, and of toil enough; which Pallas did renew, Descending from the cope of stars, dismiss’d by sharp-ey’d Jove To animate the Greeks; for now, inconstant change did move His mind from what he held of late. And as the purple bow Jove bends at mortals, when of war he will the signal show, Or make it a presage of cold, in such tempestuous sort That men are of their labours eas’d, but labouring cattle hurt; So Pallas in a purple cloud involv’d herself, and went Amongst the Grecians, stirr’d up all; but first encouragement She breath’d in Atreus’ younger son, and, for disguise, made choice Of aged Phœnix’ shape, and spake with his unwearied voice: “O Menelaus, much defame, and equal heaviness, Will touch at thee, if this true friend of great Æacides Dogs tear beneath the Trojan walls; and therefore bear thee well. Toil through the host, and ev’ry man with all thy spirit impell.” He answer’d: “O thou long-since born, O Phœnix, that hast won The honour’d foster-father’s name of Thetis’ god-like son, I would Minerva would but give strength to me, and but keep These busy darts off; I would then make in indeed, and steep My income in their bloods, in aid of good Patroclus; much His death afflicts me, much. But yet, this Hector’s grace is such With Jove, and such a fi’ry strength and spirit he has, that still His steel is killing, killing still.” The king’s so royal will Minerva joy’d to hear, since she did all the Gods outgo In his remembrance. For which grace she kindly did bestow Strength on his shoulders, and did fill his knees as lib’rally With swiftness, breathing in his breast the courage of a fly, Which loves to bite so, and doth bear man’s blood so much good will, That still though beaten from a man she flies upon him still;