The weapon toward him, plucked it from the hand That held it, and let fall his falchion’s edge Upon the Trojan’s neck and laid him dead. Unhappy youth! He slept an iron sleep⁠— Slain fighting for his country, far away From the young virgin bride yet scarcely his, For whom large marriage-gifts he made⁠—of beeves A hundred⁠—and had promised from the flocks That thronged his fields a thousand sheep and goats. Atrides Agamemnon spoiled the slain, And bore his glorious armor off among The Argive host. Antenor’s elder son, Illustrious Coön, saw, and bitter grief For his slain brother dimmed his eyes. He stood Aside, with his spear couched, while unaware The noble Agamemnon passed, and pierced The middle of the monarch’s arm below The elbow; through the flesh the shining point Passed to the other side. The king of men, Atrides, shuddered, yet refrained not then From combat; but with his wind-seasoned spear He rushed on Coön, who, to drag away His father’s son Iphidamas, had seized The body by the feet, and called his friends,