He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain. As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace, One to pursue, and one to lead the chase, Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake, Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake: No less the labouring heroes pant and strain: While that but flies, and this pursues in vain. What god, O muse, ****isted Hector's force With fate itself so long to hold the course? Phoebus it was; who, in his latest hour, Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power: And great Achilles, lest some Greek's advance Should **** the glory from his lifted lance, Sign'd to the troops to yield his foe the way, And leave untouch'd the honours of the day. Jove lifts the golden balances, that show The fates of mortal men, and things below: Here each contending hero's lot he tries, And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies. Low sinks the scale surcharged with Hector's fate; Heavy with death it sinks, and hell receives the weight.