He spake; but all the more Antilochus Urged on his coursers with the lash, as if He had not heard. As far as flies a quoit Thrown from the shoulder of a vigorous youth Who tries his strength, so far they ran abreast. The horses of Atrides then fell back; He slacked the reins; for much he feared the steeds Would dash against each other in the way, And overturn the sumptuous cars, and fling The charioteers contending for the prize Upon the dusty track. With angry words The fair-haired Menelaus chided thus:⁠—

“Antilochus, there is no man so prone As thou to mischief, and we greatly err, We Greeks, who call thee wise. Go now, and yet Thou shalt not take the prize without an oath.”

Again he spake, encouraging his steeds: “Check not your speed, nor sorrowfully stand: Their feet and knees will fail with weariness Before your own; they are no longer young.”