Thus toiled the heroes in that stubborn fight. Nor would you now have known to which array⁠— Trojan or Greek⁠—Tydides might belong; For through the field he rushed with furious speed, Like a swollen river when its current takes The torrent’s swiftness, scattering with a sweep The bridges; nor can massive dikes withstand Its fury, nor embankments raised to screen The grassy meadows, while the rains of Jove Fall heavily, and harvests, late the joy Of toiling youth, are beaten to the ground. Thus by Tydides the close phalanxes Of Troy were scattered, nor could they endure, All numerous as they were, his strong assault. As Pandarus, Lycaon’s eminent son, Beheld Tydides rush athwart the field, Breaking the ranks, he drew his crooked bow And smote the chief’s left shoulder as he came, Striking the hollow corselet. The sharp point Broke through, and blood came gushing o’er the mail. Then called aloud Lycaon’s eminent son:⁠—