The ancient King, but Diomede discern’d
  His peril imminent, and with a voice
  Like thunder, called Ulysses to his aid. 
    Laertes’ noble son, for wiles renown’d! 110
  Art thou too fugitive, and turn’st thy back
  Like the base multitude?  Ah! fear a lance
  Implanted ignominious in thy spine. 
  Stop—­Nestor dies.  Fell Hector is at hand. 
    So shouted Diomede, whose summons loud, 115
  Ulysses yet heard not, but, passing, flew
  With headlong haste to the Achaian fleet. 
  Then, Diomede, unaided as he was,
  Rush’d ardent to the vanward, and before
  The steeds of the Neleian sovereign old 120
  Standing, in accents wing’d, him thus address’d. 
    Old Chief! these youthful warriors are too brisk
  For thee, press’d also by encroaching age,
  Thy servant too is feeble, and thy steeds
  Are tardy.  Mount my chariot.  Thou shalt see 125
  With what rapidity the steeds of Troy,
  Pursuing or retreating, scour the field. 
  I took them from that terror of his foes,
  AEneas.  Thine to our attendants leave,
  While these against the warlike powers of Troy 130
  We push direct; that Hector’s self may know
  If my spear rage not furious as his own. 
    He said, nor the Gerenian Chief refused. 
  Thenceforth their servants, Sthenelus and good
  Eurymedon, took charge of Nestor’s steeds, 135
  And they the chariot of Tydides both
  Ascended; Nestor seized the reins, plied well
  The scourge, and soon they met.  Tydides hurl’d
  At Hector first, while rapid he advanced;
  But missing Hector, wounded in the breast 140
  Eniopeus his charioteer, the son
  Of brave Thebaeus, managing the steeds. 
  He fell; his fiery coursers at the sound
  Startled, recoil’d, and where he fell he died. 
  Deep sorrow for his charioteer o’erwhelm’d 145
  The mind of Hector; yet, although he mourn’d
  He left him, and another sought as brave. 
  Nor wanted long his steeds a charioteer,
  For finding soon the son of Iphitus,
  Bold Archeptolemus, he bade him mount 150
  His chariot, and the reins gave to his hand. 
  Then deeds of bloodiest note should have ensued,
  Penn’d had the Trojans been, as lambs, in Troy,
  But for quick succor of the sire of all. 
  Thundering, he downward hurled his candent bolt 155
  To the horse-feet of Diomede; dire fumed
  The flaming sulphur, and both horses drove
  Under the axle, belly to the ground. 
  Forth flew the splendid reins from Nestor’s hand,
  And thus to Diomede, appall’d, he spake. 160
    Back to the fleet, Tydides!  Can’st not see
  That Jove ordains not, now, the victory thine?