The Iliad: Book 13

But once Zeus had driven Hector and Hector's Trojans
hard against the ships, he left both armies there,
milling among the hulls to bear the brunt
and wrenching work of war

He kept his watch, enthralled by the rush of battle,
aloft the summit of timbered Samos facing Thrace.

Suddenly down from the mountain's rocky crags
Poseidon stormed with giant, lightning strides

Here this firebrand, rabid Hector leads the charge,
claiming to be the son of high and mighty Zeus.

If we all formed up along the ships right now,
our best men picked for an ambush—
that's where you really spot a fighter's mettle,
where the brave and craven always show their stripes.

And there, grizzled gray as he was, he spurred his men

A spearhead punched his gullet under the chin

A spearhead punched his gullet under the chin
and the bronze point went ripping through his nape

His breastplate could not save him, the bronze he always wore,
and the lance impaled his guts—he gasped, convulsed
and out of his well-made car the Trojan pitched

He went for Aeneas, found him out on the flank
and fringe of battle, standing idle, forever
angered at Priam who always scrimped his honors

But nothing could make him panic—no green boy,
he stood his ground like a wild mountain boar,
trusting his strength, standing up to a rout of men
that scream and swoop against him off in a lonely copse

Idomeneus—
he hurled and speared Oenomaus through the belly,
smashing his corslet just where the plates join
and the bronze spearhead spilled his entrails out

But Polites swept up close to Deiphobus' side,
caught his brother around the waist with both arms
and dragged him clear of the heartbreaking skirmish

Antilochus closed to tear the gear from his shoulders,
glancing left and right as Trojans massed against him,
plunging from every side to batter down his shield
but they could not pierce that broad glistening hide—
no scoring his tender young flesh with ruthless bronze.

Look how you favor them, these reckless Trojans,
their fury always in uproar—no one can ever slake
their thirst for blood, for the great leveler, war!

One can achieve his fill of all good things,
even of sleep, even of making love…
rapturous song and the beat and sway of dancing.

...and only the width of polished yoke keeps both beasts apart,
struggling up the furrow to cut the field's last strip.

Trusting these, they followed their chief to Troy,
shooting with these, salvo on pelting salvo,
they tore the Trojan battle lines to pieces.

How can you hope to garner all the gifts at once?

He plowed forward, testing enemy lines at all points
to see if they'd crack before him—charging under his shield
but he could not overpower the Argives' stiff resolve