So turns the lion from the nightly fold, Though high in courage, and with hunger bold, Long gall’d by herdsmen, and long vex’d by hounds, Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds; The darts fly round him from a hundred hands, And the red terrors of the blazing brands: Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey, So moved Atrides from his dangerous place With weary limbs, but with unwilling pace; The foe, he fear’d, might yet Patroclus gain, And much admonish’d, much adjured his train: