He spake, and, planning in his mind to treat The noble Hector shamefully, he bored The sinews of his feet between the heel And ankle; drawing through them leathern thongs He bound them to the car, but left the head To trail in dust. And then he climbed the car, Took in the shining mail, and lashed to speed The coursers. Not unwillingly they flew. Around the dead, as he was dragged along, The dust arose; his dark locks swept the ground That head, of late so noble in men’s eyes, Lay deep amid the dust, for Jove that day Suffered the foes of Hector to insult His corse in his own land. His mother saw, And tore her hair, and flung her lustrous veil Away, and uttered piercing shrieks. No less His father, who so loved him, piteously Bewailed him; and in all the streets of Troy The people wept aloud, with such lament As if the towery Ilium were in flames Even to its loftiest roofs. They scarce could keep The aged king within, who, wild with grief, Struggled to rush through the Dardanian gates, And, rolling in the dust, entreated all Who stood around him, calling them by name:⁠—