Rushing, with his godless blade!
Messenger.
Hear more. The third lot to Eteocles
Leapt from the upturned brazen helm,[n27] and fixed him
At the Netaean gate.[n28] His eager steeds,
Their frontlets tossed in the breeze, their swelling nostrils
High-snorting with the impatient blast of war,
Their bridles flapping with barbaric clang,
He curbs, and furious ’gainst the city wheels them,
Even as a whirling storm. His breadth of shield,