Sarpedon’s body with his splendid arms
  To be conducted safe into the town. 
  For when Patroclus fell, the friend was slain
  Of such a Chief as is not in the fleet 200
  For valor, and his bands are dauntless all. 
  But thou, at the first glimpse of Ajax’ eye
  Confounded, hast not dared in arms to face
  That warrior bold, superior far to thee. 
    To whom brave Hector, frowning stern, replied, 205
  Why, Glaucus! should a Chief like thee his tongue
  Presume to employ thus haughtily?  My friend! 
  I thee accounted wisest, once, of all
  Who dwell in fruitful Lycia, but thy speech
  Now utter’d altogether merits blame, 210
  In which thou tell’st me that I fear to stand
  Against vast Ajax.  Know that I from fight
  Shrink not, nor yet from sound of prancing steeds;
  But Jove’s high purpose evermore prevails
  Against the thoughts of man; he turns to flight 215
  The bravest, and the victory takes with ease
  Even from those whom once he favor’d most. 
  But hither, friend! stand with me; mark my deed;
  Prove me, if I be found, as thou hast said,
  An idler all the day, or if by force 220
  I not compel some Grecian to renounce
  Patroclus, even the boldest of them all. 
    He ceased, and to his host exclaim’d aloud. 
  Trojans, and Lycians, and close-fighting sons
  Of Dardanus, oh be ye men, my friends! 225
  Now summon all your fortitude, while I
  Put on the armor of Achilles, won
  From the renown’d Patroclus slain by me. 
    So saying, illustrious Hector from the clash
  Of spears withdrew, and with his swiftest pace 230
  Departing, overtook, not far remote,
  The bearers of Achilles’ arms to Troy. 
  Apart from all the horrors of the field
  Standing, he changed his armor; gave his own
  To be by them to sacred Ilium borne, 235
  And the immortal arms of Peleus’ son
  Achilles, by the ever-living Gods
  To Peleues given, put on.  Those arms the Sire,
  Now old himself, had on his son conferr’d
  But in those arms his son grew never old. 240
    Him, therefore, soon as cloud-assembler Jove
  Saw glittering in divine Achilles’ arms,
  Contemplative he shook his brows, and said,
    Ah hapless Chief! thy death, although at hand,
  Nought troubles thee.  Thou wear’st his heavenly 245
  Who all excels, terror of Ilium’s host. 
  His friend, though bold yet gentle, thou hast slain
  And hast the brows and bosom of the dead
  Unseemly bared:  yet, bright success awhile
  I give thee; so compensating thy lot, 250
  From whom Andromache shall ne’er receive
  Those glorious arms, for thou shalt ne’er