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Coinspeaker

“Paradise Lost,” vi. 339.

He said; and drove with fury on the foe. Then to the godhead of the silver bow The yellow flood began: “O son of Jove! Was not the mandate of the sire above Full and express, that Phoebus should employ His sacred arrows in defence of Troy, And make her conquer, till Hyperion’s fall In awful darkness hide the face of all?”

“Paradise Lost” ii. 351.

Thus raged both armies like conflicting fires, While Nestor’s chariot far from fight retires: His coursers steep’d in sweat, and stain’d with gore, The Greeks’ preserver, great Machaon, bore. That hour Achilles, from the topmost height Of his proud fleet, o’erlook’d the fields of fight; His feasted eyes beheld around the plain The Grecian rout, the slaying, and the slain. His friend Machaon singled from the rest, A transient pity touch’d his vengeful breast. Straight to Menoetius’ much-loved son he sent: Graceful as Mars, Patroclus quits his tent; In evil hour! Then fate decreed his doom, And fix’d the date of all his woes to come.