Now falling by another's wound, his eyes
He casts to heaven, on Argos thinks, and dies.
The pious Trojan then his javelin sent;
The shield gave way; through triple plates it went
Of solid brass, of linen triply rolled,
And three bull-hides which round the buckler rolled.
All these it passed, resistless in the course,
Transpierced his thigh, and spent its dying force.
The gaping wound gushed out a crimson flood.
The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,