Lycaon’s son, the far-renowned, replied:⁠— “Aeneas, leader of the Trojans mailed In brass, to me this man in all things seems Like warlike Diomed. I know his shield, High helm, and steeds, and yet I may not say That this is not a god. But if he be The chief of whom I speak, the warlike son Of Tydeus, not thus madly would he fight, Without some god to aid him. By his side Is one of the immortals, with a cloud About his shoulders, turning from its aim The swiftly flying arrow. ’Twas but late I aimed a shaft that pierced the hollow mail On his left shoulder, and I thought him sent To Pluto, but I slew him not. Some god Must be offended with me. I have here No steeds or car to mount. Far off at home There stand within Lycaon’s palace-walls Eleven chariots, fair and fresh and new: Each has an ample cover, and by each Are horses yoked in pairs, that champ their oats And their white barley. When I left my home, Lycaon, aged warrior, counselled me, Within his sumptuous halls, that with my steeds