Full near he lies, not mingled with the host
Of Troy, but here beyond the lines—a post
Of quiet till the dawn, that Hector found.
And near him, by his Thracian chariot bound,
Two snow-white coursers gleam against the wan
Moon, like the white wing of a river swan.
Their master slain, take these to thine own hearth,
A wondrous spoil; there hides not upon earth
A chariot-team of war so swift and fair.
Odysseus.
Say, Diomede, wilt make the men thy share,
Or catch the steeds and leave the fight to me?
I take the killing, thou the stablery:
It needs keen wit and a neat hand. The post
A man should take is where he helpeth most.
Athena.
Behold, 'tis Paris, hasting there toward
This tent. Methinks he knoweth from the guard
Some noise of prowling Argives hither blown.
Diomede.
Comes he alone or with his guards?
Athena.