“Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed To the brave rulers of the racing steed; Prizes which none beside ourself could gain, Should our immortal coursers take the plain; (A race unrivall’d, which from ocean’s god Peleus received, and on his son bestow’d.) But this no time our vigour to display; Nor suit, with them, the games of this sad day: Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck. Sad, as they shared in human grief, they stand, And trail those graceful honours on the sand! Let others for the noble task prepare, Who trust the courser and the flying car.”