Trail'd on the dust beneath the yoke were spread, And prone to earth was hung their languid head: Nor Jove disdain'd to cast a pitying look, While thus relenting to the steeds he spoke: "Unhappy coursers of immortal strain, Exempt from age, and deathless, now in vain; Did we your race on mortal man bestow, Only, alas! to share in mortal woe? For ah! what is there of inferior birth, That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth; What wretched creature of what wretched kind, Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind? A miserable race! but cease to mourn: For not by you shall Priam's son be borne High on the splendid car: one glorious prize He rashly boasts: the rest our will denies. Ourself will swiftness to your nerves impart, Ourself with rising spirits swell your heart. Automedon your rapid flight shall bear Safe to the navy through the storm of war. For yet 'tis given to Troy to ravage o'er The field, and spread her slaughters to the shore