Thus pray’d he, all unwisely; for the pray’r He utter’d, to himself was fraught with death; To whom, much griev’d, Achilles, swift of foot: “Heav’n-born Patroclus, oh, what words are these! Of prophecy I reck not, though I know; Nor message hath my mother brought from Jove; But it afflicts my soul; when one I see That basely robs his equal of his prize, His lawful prize, by highest valour won; Such grief is mine, such wrong have I sustain’d. Her, whom the sons of Greece on me bestow’d, Prize of my spear, the well-wall’d city storm’d, The mighty Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, Hath borne by force away, as from the hands Of some dishonour’d, houseless vagabond. But let the past be past; I never meant My wrath should have no end; yet had not thought My anger to abate, till my own ships Should hear the war-cry, and the battle bear, But go, and in my well-known armour clad, Lead forth the valiant Myrmidons to war, Since the dark cloud of Trojans circles round The ships in force; and on the shingly beach, Pent up in narrow limits, lie the Greeks; And all the city hath pour’d its numbers forth In hope undoubting; for they see no more My helm among them flashing; else in flight Their dead would choke the streams, if but to me Great Agamemnon bore a kindly mind: But round the camp the battle now is wag’d. No more the hands of valiant Diomed, The Greeks protecting, hurl his fiery spear; Nor hear I now, from his detested lips, The shout of Agamemnon; all around Is heard the warrior-slayer Hector’s voice, Cheering his Trojans; with triumphant cries They, from the vanquish’d Greeks, hold all the plain. Nathless do thou, Patroclus, in defence Fall boldly on, lest they with blazing fire Our ships destroy, and hinder our retreat. But hear, and ponder well the end of all I have to say, and so for me obtain Honour and glory in the eyes of Greece; And that the beauteous maiden to my arms They may restore, with costly gifts to boot. The ships reliev’d, return forthwith; and though The Thund’rer, Juno’s Lord, should crown thine arms With triumph, be not rash, apart from me, In combat with the warlike sons of Troy; (So should my name in less repute be held;) Nor, in the keen excitement of the fight And slaughter of the Trojans, lead thy troops On tow’rd the city, lest thou find thyself By some one of th’ immortal Gods oppos’d; For the far-darting Phoebus loves them well; But when in safety thou hast plac’d the ships, Delay not to return, and leave the rest To battle on the plain: for would to Jove, To Pallas and Apollo, that not one, Or Greek or Trojan, might escape from death, Save only thou and I; that so we two Alone might raze the sacred tow’rs of Troy.”