The bravest, to his aid. Atrides thrust His brazen spear below the bossy shield, And slew him as he drew the corpse, and o’er The dead Iphidamas struck off his head. Thus were Antenor’s sons⁠—their doom fulfilled⁠— Sent by Atrides to the realm of death. And then he ranged among the enemy’s ranks With wielded lance and sword and ponderous stones, While yet the warm blood issued from his wound. But when the wound grew dry, and ceased to flow With blood, keen anguish seized his vigorous frame As when a woman feels the piercing pangs Of travail brought her by the Ilythian maids, Daughters of Juno, who preside at births, And walk the ministers of bitter pains⁠— Such anguish seized on Agamemnon’s frame; And, leaping to his chariot-seat, he bade The guider of the steeds make haste to reach The roomy ships, for he was overcome With pain; but first he shouted to the Greeks:⁠—