A Gorgon, to the frontlet riveted,With bells set round-like stories that they tellOf Pallas’ shield-made music terrible.The numbers of that host no pen could writeNor reckon; ’tis a multitudinous sight,Long lines of horsemen, lines of targeteers,Archers abundant; and behind them veersA wavering horde, light-armed, in Thracian weed.A friend is come to Ilion in her need’Gainst whom no Argive, let him fly or stand,Shall aught avail nor ’scape his conquering hand.LEADER.Lo, when the Gods breathe gently o’er a town,All runs to good, as water-streams run down.HECTOR.(bitterly)Aye, when my spear hath fortune, when God sendsHis favour, I shall find abundant friends.I need them not; who never came of yoreTo help us, when we rolled to death beforeThe war-swell, and the wind had ripped our sail.Then Rhesus taught us Trojans what availHis words are.—He comes early to the feast;