The men of Phylacè, of Pyrasus⁠— Sacred to Ceres and o’erspread with flowers, And of Itona, mother of white flocks, Antrona on the sea, and Pteleum green With herbage⁠—over these while yet he lived The brave Protesilaüs ruled; but now The dark earth covered him, and for his sake His consort, desolate in Phylacè, Tore her fair cheeks, and all unfinished stood His palace, for a Dardan warrior slew Her husband as he leaped upon the land, The foremost of the Achaians. Yet his troops Were not without a leader, though they mourned Their brave old chief. Podarces, loved by Mars⁠— Son of Iphiclus, rich in flocks, who sprang From Phylacus⁠—led them and formed their ranks. A younger brother of the slain was he. The slain was braver. Though the warriors grieved To lose their glorious chief, they did not lack A general. Forty dark ships followed him.