The Fall of Troy. active 4th century Smyrnaeus Quintus

       Smote 'neath the railer's ear, and all his teeth

       Were dashed to the earth: he fell upon his face:

       Forth of his lips the blood in torrent gushed:

       Swift from his body fled the dastard soul

       Of that vile niddering. Achaea's sons

       Rejoiced thereat, for aye he wont to rail

       On each and all with venomous gibes, himself

       A scandal and the shame of all the host.

       Then mid the warrior Argives cried a voice:

       "Not good it is for baser men to rail

       On kings, or secretly or openly;

       For wrathful retribution swiftly comes.

       The Lady of Justice sits on high; and she

       Who heapeth woe on woe on humankind,

       Even Ate, punisheth the shameless tongue."

      So mid the Danaans cried a voice: nor yet

       Within the mighty soul of Peleus' son

       Lulled was the storm of wrath, but fiercely he spake:

       "Lie there in dust, thy follies all forgot!

       'Tis not for knaves to beard their betters: once

       Thou didst provoke Odysseus' steadfast soul,

       Babbling with venomous tongue a thousand gibes,

       And didst escape with life; but thou hast found

       The son of Peleus not so patient-souled,

       Who with one only buffet from his hand

       Unkennels thy dog's soul! A bitter doom

       Hath swallowed thee: by thine own rascalry

       Thy life is sped. Hence from Achaean men,

       And mouth out thy revilings midst the dead!"

      So spake the valiant-hearted aweless son

       Of Aeacus. But Tydeus' son alone

       Of all the Argives was with anger stirred

       Against Achilles for Thersites slain,

       Seeing these twain were of the self-same blood,

       The one, proud Tydeus' battle-eager son,

       The other, seed of godlike Agrius:

       Brother of noble Oeneus Agrius was;

       And Oeneus in the Danaan land begat

       Tydeus the battle-eager, son to whom

       Was stalwart Diomedes. Therefore wroth

       Was he for slain Thersites, yea, had raised

       Against the son of Peleus vengeful hands,

       Except the noblest of Aehaea's sons

       Had thronged around him, and besought him sore,

       And held him back therefrom. With Peleus' son

       Also they pleaded; else those mighty twain,

       The mightiest of all Argives, were at point

       To close with clash of swords, so stung were they

       With bitter wrath; yet hearkened they at last

       To prayers of comrades, and were reconciled.

      Then of their pity did the Atreid kings—

       For these too at the imperial loveliness

       Of Penthesileia marvelled—render up

       Her body to the men of Troy, to bear

       Unto the burg of Ilus far-renowned

       With all her armour. For a herald came

       Asking this boon for Priam; for the king

       Longed with deep yearning of the heart to lay

       That battle-eager maiden, with her arms,

       And with her war-horse, in the great earth-mound

       Of old Laomedon. And so he heaped

       A high broad pyre without the city wall:

       Upon the height thereof that warrior-queen

       They laid, and costly treasures did they heap

       Around her, all that well beseems to burn

       Around a mighty queen in battle slain.

       And so the Fire-god's swift-upleaping might,

       The ravening flame, consumed her. All around

       The people stood on every hand, and quenched

       The pyre with odorous wine. Then gathered they

       The bones, and poured sweet ointment over them,

       And laid them in a casket: over all

       Shed they the rich fat of a heifer, chief

       Among the herds that grazed on Ida's slope.

       And, as for a beloved daughter, rang

       All round the Trojan men's heart-stricken wail,

       As by the stately wall they buried her

       On an outstanding tower, beside the bones

       Of old Laomedon, a queen beside

       A king. This honour for the War-god's sake

       They rendered, and for Penthesileia's own.

       And in the plain beside her buried they

       The Amazons, even all that followed her

       To battle, and by Argive spears were slain.

       For Atreus' sons begrudged not these the boon

       Of tear-besprinkled graves, but let their friends,

       The warrior Trojans, draw their corpses forth,

       Yea, and their own slain also, from amidst

       The swath of darts o'er that grim harvest-field.

       Wrath strikes not at the dead: pitied are foes

       When life has fled, and left them foes no more.