“Patroclus, dearly lov’d of this sad heart! When last I left this tent, I left thee full Of healthy life; returning now, I find Only thy lifeless corpse, thou Prince of men! So sorrow still, on sorrow heap’d, I bear. The husband of my youth, to whom my sire And honour’d mother gave me, I beheld Slain with the sword before the city walls: Three brothers, whom with me one mother bore, My dearly lov’d ones, all were doom’d to death: Nor wouldst thou, when Achilles swift of foot My husband slew, and royal Mynes’ town In ruin laid, allow my tears to flow; But thou wouldst make me (such was still thy speech) The wedded wife of Peleus’ godlike son: Thou wouldst to Phthia bear me in thy ship, And there, thyself, amid the Myrmidons, Wouldst give my marriage feast; then, unconsol’d, I weep thy death, my ever-gentle friend!” Weeping, she spoke; the women join’d her wail: Patroclus’ death the pretext for their tears, But each in secret wept her private griefs. Around Achilles throng’d the elder men, Urging to eat; but he, with groans, refus’d: “I pray you, would you show your love, dear friends, Ask me not now with food or drink to appease Hunger or thirst; a load of bitter grief Weighs heavy on my soul; till set of sun Fasting will I remain, and still endure.” The other monarchs at his word withdrew: The two Atridae, and Ulysses sage, And Nestor and Idomeneus remain’d, And aged Phoenix, to divert his grief; But comfort none, save in the bloody jaws Of battle would he take; by mem’ry stirr’d, He heav’d a deep-drawn sigh, as thus he spoke: “How oft hast thou, ill-fated, dearest friend, Here in this tent with eager zeal prepar’d The tempting meal, whene’er the sons of Greece In haste would arm them for the bloody fray! Now liest thou there, while I, for love of thee, From food and drink, before me plac’d, refrain: For ne’er shall I again such sorrow know, Not though I heard of aged Peleus’ death, Who now in Phthia mourns, with tender tears, His absent son; he on a foreign shore Is warring in that hateful Helen’s cause: No, nor of his, who now in Scyros’ isle Is growing up, if yet indeed he live, Young Neoptolemus, my godlike son. My hope had been indeed, that here in Troy, Far from the plains of Argos, I alone Was doom’d to die; and that to Phthia thou, Return’d in safety, mightst my son convey From Scyros home, and show him all my wealth, My spoils, my slaves, my lofty, spacious house. For Peleus or to death, methinks, e’en now Hath yielded, or not far from death remov’d, Lives on in sorrow, bow’d by gloomy age, Expecting day by day the messenger Who bears the mournful tidings of my death.”