So sprightly, fierce, victorious, the great heroë flew Upon the Trojans, and, at once, he two commanders slew, Hypenor and Astynous; in one his lance he fix’d Full at the nipple of his breast; the other smote betwixt The neck and shoulder with his sword, which was so well laid on It swept his arm and shoulder off. These left, he rush’d upon Abas and Polyëidus, of old Eurydamas The hapless sons; who could by dreams tell what would come to pass, Yet, when his sons set forth to Troy, the old man could not read By their dreams what would chance to them, for both were stricken dead By great Tydides, After these, he takes into his rage Xanthus and Thoön, Phænops’ sons, born to him in his age; The good old man ev’n pin’d with years, and one son more To heir his goods; yet Diomed took both, and left him store Of tears and sorrows in their steads, since he could never see His sons leave those hot wars alive; so this the end must be Of all his labours; what he heap’d, to make his issue great, Authority heir’d, and with her seed fill’d his forgotten seat. Then snatch’d he up two Priamists, that in one chariot stood, Echemon, and fair Chromius. As feeding in a wood Oxen or steers are, one of which a lion leaps upon, Tears down, and wrings in two his neck; so, sternly, Tydeus’ son Threw from their chariot both these hopes of old Dardanides, Then took their arms, and sent their horse to those that ride the seas, Æneas, seeing the troops thus toss’d, brake through the heat of fight, And all the whizzing of the darts, to find the Lycian knight, Lycaon’s son; whom having found, he thus bespake the peer; “O Pandarus, where’s now thy bow, thy deathful arrows where, In which no one in all our host but gives the palm to thee, Nor in the sun-lov’d Lycian greens, that breed our archery, Lives any that exceeds thyself? Come, lift thy hands to Jove, And send an arrow at this man, if but a man he prove, That wins such god-like victories, and now affects our host With so much sorrow, since so much of our best blood is lost By his high valour. I have fear some God in him doth threat, Incens’d for want of sacrifice; the wrath of God is great.” Lycaon’s famous son replied: “Great counsellor of Troy, This man, so excellent in arms, I think is Tydeus’ joy; I know him by his fi’ry shield, by his bright three-plum’d casque, And by his horse; nor can I say, if or some God doth mask In his appearance, or he be whom I nam’d Tydeus’ son, But without God the things he does for certain are not done. Some great Immortal, that conveys his shoulders in a cloud, Goes by and puts by ev’ry dart at his bold breast bestow’d, Or lets it take with little hurt; for I myself let fly A shaft that shot him through his arms, but had as good gone by, Yet which I gloriously affirm’d had driv’n him down to hell. Some God is angry, and with me; for far hence, where I dwell, My horse and chariots idle stand, with which some other way I might repair this shameful miss. Elev’n fair chariots stay