“Whither, oh whither does Ulysses run? Oh, flight unworthy great Laertes’ son! Mix’d with the vulgar shall thy fate be found, Pierced in the back, a vile, dishonest wound? Oh turn and save from Hector’s direful rage The glory of the Greeks, the Pylian sage.” His fruitless words are lost unheard in air, Ulysses seeks the ships, and shelters there. But bold Tydides to the rescue goes, A single warrior midst a host of foes; Before the coursers with a sudden spring He leap’d, and anxious thus bespoke the king: