So he, with a clear shout of laughter, Forth of his ambush leapt, and he vaunted him, uttering thiswise:  “Hit thou art! not in vain flew the shaft; how by rights it had pierced thee Into the undermost gut, therewith to have rived thee of life- breath!  Following that had the Trojans plucked a new breath from their direst, They all frighted of thee, as the goats bleat in flight from a lion.”  Then unto him untroubled made answer stout Diomedes:  “Bow-puller, jiber, thy bow for thy glorying, spyer at virgins!  If that thou dared’st face me here out in the open with weapons, Nothing then would avail thee thy bow and thy thick shot of arrows.  Now thou plumest thee vainly because of a graze of my footsole; Reck I as were that stroke from a woman or some pettish infant.  Aye flies blunted the dart of the man that’s emasculate, noughtworth!  Otherwise hits, forth flying from me, and but strikes it the slightest, My keen shaft, and it numbers a man of the dead fallen straightway.  Torn, troth, then are the cheeks of the wife of that man fallen slaughtered, Orphans his babes, full surely he reddens the earth with his blood- drops, Rotting, round him the birds, more numerous they than the women.”

     Poem:  Hypnos On Ida

     [Iliad, B. XIV.  V. 283]

They then to fountain-abundant Ida, mother of wild beasts, Came, and they first left ocean to fare over mainland at Lektos, Where underneath of their feet waved loftiest growths of the woodland.  There hung Hypnos fast, ere the vision of Zeus was observant, Mounted upon a tall pine-tree, tallest of pines that on Ida Lustily spring off soil for the shoot up aloft into aether.  There did he sit well-cloaked by the wide-branched pine for concealment, That loud bird, in his form like, that perched high up in the mountains, Chalkis is named by the Gods, but of mortals known as Kymindis.

     Poem:  Clash In Arms Of The Achaians And Trojans

     [Iliad, B. XIV.  V. 394]

Not the sea-wave so bellows abroad when it bursts upon shingle, Whipped from the sea’s deeps up by the terrible blast of the Northwind; Nay, nor is ever the roar of the fierce fire’s rush so arousing, Down along mountain-glades, when it surges to kindle a woodland; Nay, nor so tonant thunders the stress of the gale in the oak- trees’ Foliage-tresses high, when it rages to raveing its utmost; As rose then stupendous the Trojan’s cry and Achaians’, Dread upshouting as one when together they clashed in the conflict.

     Poem:  The Horses Of Achilles

     [Iliad, B. XVII.  V. 426]