Slow to report; for in the camp I left them
Eager to share among their several bands
Our gates by lot. Therefore, bestir thee; fence
Each gate with the choicest men: dash all delay;
For now the Argive host, near and more near,
All panoplied comes on; the dark-wreathed dust
Rolls, and the snowy foam of snorting chargers
Stains the pure Theban soil. Like a wise pilot
That scents the coming gale, hold thou the city
Tight, ere the storm of Ares on our heads