O Zeus above, who checked my conquering way, Who baulked the hungry lion of his prey Or ever I could sweep my country clear Of these despoilers, dost thou hate my spear? Had but the sun’s bright arrows failed me not, I ne’er had rested till the ships were hot With fire, and through the tents upon the plain This bloody hand had passed and passed again! Myself, I longed to try the battle-cast By night, and use God’s vantage to the last, But sage and prophet, learned in the way Of seercraft, bade me wait for dawn of day, And then—leave no Greek living in the land. They wait not, they, for what my prophets planned So sagely. In the dark a runaway Beats a pursuer. Through our whole array Send runners! Bid them shake off sleep and wait Ready with shield and spear. ’Tis not too late To catch them as they climb on board, and slash Their crouching shoulders till the gangways splash With blood, or teach them, fettered leg and arm, To dig the stiff clods of some Trojan farm. LEADER. My Prince, thy words run fast. Nor thou nor I Have knowledge yet that the Greeks mean to fly. HECTOR. What makes them light their beacons? Tell me, what? LEADER. God knows! And, for my part, I like it not. HECTOR. What, feared? Thou wouldst be feared of everything! LEADER. They never lit such light before, O King. HECTOR. They never fled, man, in such wild dismay.