“Why, Hector, dost thou pause from battle thus? Nay, it becomes thee not. Were I in might Greater than thou, as I am less, full soon Wouldst thou repent this shrinking from the war. Come boldly on, and urge thy firm-paced steeds Against Patroclus; slay him on the field, And Phoebus will requite thee with renown.”
He spake, and mingled in the hard-fought fray, While noble Hector bade his charioteer, The brave Cebriones, ply well the lash, And join the battle. Phoebus went before, Entering the crowd, and spread dismay among The Greeks, and gave the glory of the hour To Hector and the Trojans. Little heed Paid Hector to the rest, nor raised his arm To slay them, but urged on his firm-paced steeds To meet Patroclus, who, beholding him, Leaped from his car. In his left hand he held A spear, and with the other lifting up A white, rough stone, the largest he could grasp, Flung it with all its force. It flew not wide, Nor flew in vain, but smote Cebriones, The warlike chief who guided Hector’s steeds, A spurious son of Priam the renowned. The sharp stone smote his forehead as he held The reins, and crushed both eyebrows in; the bone Resisted not the blow; the warrior’s eyes Fell in the dust