“Brave Trojans, great in mastery of steeds, Press on; the bravest of the Grecian host Is smitten, nor, I think, can long survive The grievous wound, if it be true that I, At the command of Phoebus, son of Jove, Have left my home upon the Lycian shore.”

Thus boastfully he spake; but his swift shaft Slew not Tydides, who had now withdrawn. And, standing by his steeds and chariot, spake To Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus:⁠— “Haste down, kind Sthenelus, and with thy hand Draw the sharp arrow from my shoulder here.”

He spake, and Sthenelus at once leaped down, Stood by his side, and from his shoulder drew The wingèd arrow deeply fixed within. The blood flowed forth upon the twisted rings Of mail, while Diomed, the valiant, prayed:⁠—