“Ye Gods, what marvel do mine eyes behold! Methinks the valiant Trojans slain by me Ere long will from the realms of darkness rise; Since, death escaping, but to slav’ry sold In Lemnos’ isle, this fellow hath return’d, Despite the hoary sea’s impediment, Which many a man against his will hath stay’d: Now shall he taste my spear, that I may see If thence too he return, or if the earth May keep him safe, which e’en the strongest holds.” Thus, as he stood, he mus’d; but all aghast Approach’d Lycaon; and would fain have clasp’d The Hero’s knees; for longingly he sought Escape from bitter death and evil fate. Achilles rais’d his spear, in act to strike; He, stooping, ran beneath, and clasp’d his knees; Above his back the murd’rous weapon pass’d, And in the earth was fix’d: one suppliant hand Achilles’ knees embrac’d; the other held, With unrelaxing grasp, the pointed spear; As he with winged words, imploring, spoke: “I clasp thy knees, Achilles! look then down With pity on my woes; and recognize, Illustrious chief, a suppliant’s sacred claim: For in thy tent I first broke bread, that day, When, in my father’s fruitful vineyard seiz’d, Thy captive I became, to slav’ry sold, Far from my sire and friends, in Lemnos’ isle. A hundred oxen were my ransom then; At thrice so much I now would buy my life. This day is but the twelfth, since, sorely tried By lengthen’d suffering, back to Troy I came. Now to thy hands once more my cruel fate Consigns me; surely by the wrath of Jove Pursued, who gives me to thy pow’r again. Me, doom’d to early death, my mother bore, Old Altes’ daughter, fair Laothoe; Altes, who rul’d the warlike Leleges, In lofty Pedasus, by Satnois’ stream. His child of Priam’s many wives was one; Two sons she bore, and both by thee must die. Already one, the godlike Polydore, Amid the foremost ranks thy spear hath slain; And now my doom hath found me; for from thee, Since evil fate hath plac’d me in thy hands, I may not hope to fly; yet hear but this, And weigh it in thy mind, to spare my life: I come not of that womb which Hector bore, Who slew thy comrade, gentle, kind, and brave.” Thus Priam’s noble son, imploring, spoke; But stern the answer fell upon his ear: “Thou fool! no more to me of ransom prate! Before Patroclus met the doom of death, To spare the Trojans still my soul inclin’d; And many captives, ta’en alive, I sold; But from henceforth, before the walls of Troy, Not one of all the Trojans, whom the Gods May to my hands deliver, least of all A son of Priam, shall escape the death. Thou too, my friend, must die: why vainly wail? Dead is Patroclus too, thy better far. Me too thou see’st, how stalwart, tall, and fair, Of noble sire, and Goddess-mother born: Yet must I yield to death and stubborn fate, Whene’er, at morn, or noon, or eve, the spear Or arrow from the bow may reach my life.”