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But the more Achilles kept looking, the more his rage / at Hector grew.
Men soon grow tired of fighting, where the sharp blades / reap bodies like stalks of grain and scatter them thickly / upon the ground, though the gain is small when Lord Zeus / has tipped the scales and decided which army will win.
I know how mighty you are and that I am much weaker, / yet these things lie in the hands of the gods. Although / I am the lesser man, I might still take your life / with a throw of my spear. It is as sharp as yours is.
Achilles ran everywhere, in a frenzy, / and he killed as he went, and the black earth flowed with the blood.
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