“Lie there among the fishes, who shall feed Upon thy blood unscared. No mother there Shall weep thee lying on thy bier; thy corpse Scamander shall bear down to the broad sea, Where, as he sees thee darkening its face, Some fish shall hasten, darting through the waves, To feed upon Lycaon’s fair white limbs. So perish ye, till sacred Troy be ours, You fleeing, while I follow close and slay. This river cannot aid you⁠—this fair stream With silver eddies, to whose deity Ye offer many beeves in sacrifice, And fling into its gulfs your firm-paced steeds; But thus ye all shall perish, till I take Full vengeance for Patroclus of the Greeks, Whom, while I stood aloof from war, ye slew.”