He strook him at his breast’s right pap, quite through his shoulder-bone, And in the dust of earth he fell, that was the fruitful soil Of his friends’ hopes; but where he sow’d he buried all his toil. And as a poplar shot aloft, set by a river side, In moist edge of a mighty fen, his head in curls implied, But all his body plain and smooth, to which a wheel-wright puts The sharp edge of his shining axe, and his soft timber cuts From his in native root, in hope to hew out of his bole The fell’ffs, or out-parts of a wheel, that compass in the whole, To serve some goodly chariot; but, being big and sad, And to be hal’d home through the bogs, the useful hope he had Sticks there, and there the goodly plant lies with’ring out his grace: So lay, by Jove-bred Ajax’ hand, Anthemion’s forward race, Nor could through that vast fen of toils be drawn to serve the ends Intended by his body’s pow’rs, nor cheer his aged friends. But now the gay-arm’d Antiphus, a son of Priam, threw His lance at Ajax through the prease; which went by him, and flew On Leucus, wise Ulysses’ friend; his groin it smote, as fain He would have drawn into his spoil the carcass of the slain, By which he fell, and that by him; it vex’d Ulysses’ heart, Who thrust into the face of fight, well-arm’d at ev’ry part, Came close, and look’d about to find an object worth his lance; Which when the Trojans saw him shake, and he so near advance, All shrunk; he threw, and forth it shin’d, nor fell but where it fell’d; His friend’s grief gave it angry pow’r, and deadly way it held Upon Democoon, who was sprung of Priam’s wanton force, Came from Abydus, and was made the master of his horse. Through both his temples strook the dart, the wood of one side shew’d, The pile out of the other look’d, and so the earth he strew’d With much sound of his weighty arms. Then back the foremost went; Ev’n Hector yielded; then the Greeks gave worthy clamours vent, Effecting then their first-dumb pow’rs; some drew the dead, and spoil’d, Some follow’d, that, in open flight, Troy might confess it foil’d. Apollo, angry at the sight, from top of Ilion cried: “Turn head, ye well-rode peers of Troy, feed not the Grecians’ pride, They are not charm’d against your points, of steel, nor iron, fram’d; Nor fights the fair-hair’d Thetis’ son, but sits at fleet inflam’d.” So spake the dreadful God from Troy. The Greeks, Jove’s noblest Seed Encourag’d to keep on the chace; and, where fit spirit did need, She gave it, marching in the midst. Then flew the fatal hour Back on Diores, in return of Ilion’s sun-burn’d pow’r; Diores Amaryncides, whose right leg’s ankle-bone, And both the sinews, with a sharp and handful-charging stone Pirus Imbrasides did break, that led the Thracian bands And came from Ænos; down he fell, and up he held his hands To his lov’d friends; his spirit wing’d to fly out of his breast With which not satisfied, again Imbrasides address’d His jav’lin at him, and so ripp’d his navel, that the wound,