Sorely groaned Paris; with the torturing wound Fainted his spirit. Leeches sought to allay His frenzy of pain. But now drew back to Troy The Trojans, and the Danaans to their ships Swiftly returned, for dark night put an end To strife, and stole from men's limbs weariness, Pouring upon their eyes pain-healing sleep. But through the livelong night no sleep laid hold On Paris: for his help no leech availed, Though ne'er so willing, with his salves. His weird Was only by Oenone's hands to escape Death's doom, if so she willed. Now he obeyed The prophecy, and he went--exceeding loth, But grim necessity forced him thence, to face The wife forsaken. Evil-boding fowl Shrieked o'er his head, or darted past to left, Still as he went. Now, as he looked at them, His heart sank; now hope whispered, "Haply vain Their bodings are!" but on their wings were borne Visions of doom that blended with his pain. Into Oenone's presence thus he came. Amazed her thronging handmaids looked on him As at the Nymph's feet that pale suppliant fell Faint with the anguish of his wound, whose pangs Stabbed him through brain and heart, yea, quivered through His very bones, for that fierce venom crawled Through all his inwards with corrupting fangs; And his life fainted in him agony-thrilled. As one with sickness and tormenting thirst Consumed, lies parched, with heart quick-shuddering, With liver seething as in flame, the soul, Scarce conscious, fluttering at his burning lips, Longing for life, for water longing sore; So was his breast one fire of torturing pain. Then in exceeding feebleness he spake: "O reverenced wife, turn not from me in hate For that I left thee widowed long ago! Not of my will I did it: the strong Fates Dragged me to Helen--oh that I had died Ere I embraced her--in thine arms had died! All, by the Gods I pray, the Lords of Heaven, By all the memories of our wedded love, Be merciful! Banish my bitter pain: Lay on my deadly wound those healing salves Which only can, by Fate's decree, remove This torment, if thou wilt. Thine heart must speak My sentence, to be saved from death or no. Pity me--oh, make haste to pity me! This venom's might is swiftly bringing death! Heal me, while life yet lingers in my limbs! Remember not those pangs of jealousy, Nor leave me by a cruel doom to die Low fallen at thy feet! This should offend The Prayers, the Daughters of the Thunderer Zeus, Whose anger followeth unrelenting pride With vengeance, and the Erinnys executes Their wrath. My queen, I sinned, in folly sinned; Yet from death save me--oh, make haste to save!"