And now, again, Sarpedon’s shining spear Was vainly flung; the point, in passing o’er Patroclus’s left shoulder, gave no wound. In turn, Patroclus, hurling not in vain His weapon, smote him where the midriff’s web Holds the tough heart. He fell as falls an oak Or poplar or tall pine, which workmen hew Among the mountains with their sharpened steel To frame a ship. So he before his steeds And chariot fell upon the bloody dust, And grasped it with his hands, and gnashed his teeth. As when a lion coming on a herd Seizes, amid the crowd of stamping beeves, A tawny and high-mettled bull, that dies Bellowing in fury in the lion’s jaws⁠— Like him, indignant to be overcome, The leader of the bucklered Lycian host, Laid prostrate by Patroclus, called by name His dear companion, and addressed him thus:⁠—