Hector, the son of Priam, from the corpse. And now would he have dragged it thence, and won Infinite glory, had not Iris come⁠— The goddess whose swift feet are like the wind⁠— To Peleus’ son, a messenger from heaven, In haste, unknown to Jupiter and all The other gods⁠—for Juno sent her down⁠— To bid the hero arm. She came and stood Beside him, speaking thus with wingèd words:⁠—

“Pelides, rise, most terrible of men, In rescue of Patroclus, over whom They struggle fiercely at the fleet; for there They slay each other⁠—these who fight to keep The dead, and those, the men of Troy, who charge To drag him off to Ilium’s airy heights; And chief, illustrious Hector longs to seize The corpse, and from the delicate neck to hew The head, and fix it on a stake. Arise, Loiter no longer;⁠—rise, ashamed to leave Patroclus to be torn by Trojan dogs. For thine will be the infamy, if yet The corpse be brought dishonored to thy tent.”