Nor far from thence, proud Rhaesus’ Tents he knows630
By their white Veils, that match’d the winter Snows,
Betray’d and stretch’d amidst his slaughter’d Train,
And, while he slept, by fierce Tydides slain.
Who drove his Coursers from the Scene of Blood,
E’er the fierce Steeds had tasted Trojan Food,635
Or drank divine Scamander’s fatal Flood.
There Troilus flies disarm’d, unhappy Boy!
From stern Achilles, round the Fields of Troy;
Unequal he! to such an Arm in War!
Supine, and trailing, from his empty Car,640
Still, tho’ in Death, he grasps the flowing Reins,
His startled Coursers whirl him o’er the Plains,
The Spear, inverted, streaks the Dust around,
His snowy Neck and Tresses sweep the Ground.
Mean time a pensive supplicating Train645
Of Trojan Matrons, to Minerva’s Fane
In
