Thus Hector swore: the gods were call’d in vain, But the rash youth prepares to scour the plain: Across his back the bended bow he flung, A wolf’s grey hide around his shoulders hung, A ferret’s downy fur his helmet lined, And in his hand a pointed javelin shined. Then (never to return) he sought the shore, And trod the path his feet must tread no more. Scarce had he pass’d the steeds and Trojan throng, (Still bending forward as he coursed along,) When, on the hollow way, the approaching tread Ulysses mark’d, and thus to Diomed;