Who, taking chariot, took his wound, and tumbled with the same From his attempted seat: the lance through his right shoulder strook, And horrid darkness strook through him; the spoil his soldiers took. Atrides-Menelaus slew, as he before him fled, Scamandrius, son of Strophius, that was a huntsman bred; A skilful huntsman, for his skill Diana’s self did teach, And made him able with his dart infallibly to reach All sorts of subtlest savages, which many a woody hill Bred for him, and he much preserv’d, and all to show his skill. Yet not the dart-delighting Queen taught him to shun this dart, Nor all his hitting so far off, the mast’ry of his art; His back receiv’d it, and he fell upon his breast withal; His body’s ruin, and his arms, so sounded in his fall, That his affrighted horse flew off, and left him, like his life. Meriones slew Phereclus, whom she that ne’er was wife, Yet Goddess of good housewives, held in excellent respect For knowing all the witty things that grace an architect, And having pow’r to give it all the cunning use of hand. Harmonides, his sire, built ships, and made him understand, With all the practice it requir’d, the frame of all that skill. He built all Alexander’s ships, that author’d all the ill Of all the Trojans and his own, because he did not know The oracles advising Troy (for fear of overthrow) To meddle with no sea affair, but live by tilling land. This man Meriones surpris’d, and drave his deadly hand Through his right hip; the lance’s head ran through the región About the bladder, underneath th’ in-muscles and the bone; He, sighing, bow’d his knees to death, and sacrific’d to earth. Phylides stay’d Pedæus’ flight, Antenor’s bastard birth, Whom virtuous Theano his wife, to please her husband, kept As tenderly as those she lov’d. Phylides near him stept, And in the fountain of the nerves did drench his fervent lance, At his head’s back-part; and so far the sharp head did advance, It cleft the organ of his speech, and th’ iron, cold as death, He took betwixt his grinning teeth, and gave the air his breath. Eurypylus, the much renown’d, and great Evemon’s son, Divine Hypsenor slew, begot by stout Dolopion, And consecrate Scamander’s priest; he had a God’s regard Amongst the people; his hard flight the Grecian follow’d hard, Rush’d in so close, that with his sword he on his shoulder laid A blow that his arm’s brawn cut off; nor there his vigour stay’d, But drave down, and from off his wrist it hew’d his holy hand That gush’d out blood, and down it dropp’d upon the blushing sand; Death, with his purple finger, shut, and violent fate, his eyes. Thus fought these, but distinguish’d well. Tydides so implies His fury that you could not know whose side had interest In his free labours, Greece or Troy; but as a flood, increas’d By violent and sudden show’rs, let down from hills, like hills Melted in fury, swells and foams, and so he overfills His natural channel; that besides both hedge and bridge resigns