“Iris, with haste thy golden wings display, To godlike Hector this our word convey— While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around, Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground, Bid him give way; but issue forth commands, And trust the war to less important hands: But when, or wounded by the spear or dart, That chief shall mount his chariot, and depart, Then Jove shall string his arm, and fire his breast, Then to her ships shall flying Greece be press’d, Till to the main the burning sun descend, And sacred night her awful shade extend.”