Ah, my Patroclus! dearest friend of all To hapless me, departing from this tent I left thee living, and now, generous Chief! Restored to it again, here find thee dead. How rapid in succession are my woes!350 I saw, myself, the valiant prince to whom My parents had betroth’d me, slain before Our city walls; and my three brothers, sons Of my own mother, whom with long regret I mourn, fell also in that dreadful field.355 But when the swift Achilles slew the prince Design’d my spouse, and the fair city sack’d Of noble Mynes, thou by every art Of tender friendship didst forbid my tears, Promising oft that thou would’st make me bride360 Of Peleus’ godlike son, that thy own ship Should waft me hence to Phthia, and that thyself Would’st furnish forth among the Myrmidons Our nuptial feast. Therefore thy death I mourn Ceaseless, for thou wast ever kind to me.365 She spake, and all her fellow-captives heaved Responsive sighs, deploring each, in show, The dead Patroclus, but, in truth, herself.[9] Then the Achaian Chiefs gather’d around Achilles, wooing him to eat, but he370 Groan’d and still resolute, their suit refused— If I have here a friend on whom by prayers I may prevail, I pray that ye desist, Nor longer press me, mourner as I am, To eat or drink, for till the sun go down375 I am inflexible, and _will_ abstain. So saying, the other princes he dismiss’d Impatient, but the sons of Atreus both, Ulysses, Nestor and Idomeneus, With Phœnix, hoary warrior, in his tent380 Abiding still, with cheerful converse kind Essay’d to soothe him, whose afflicted soul All soothing scorn’d till he should once again Rush on the ravening edge of bloody war. Then, mindful of his friend, groaning he said385 Time was, unhappiest, dearest of my friends! When even thou, with diligent dispatch, Thyself, hast spread a table in my tent, The hour of battle drawing nigh between The Greeks and warlike Trojans. But there lies390 Thy body now, gored by the ruthless steel, And for thy sake I neither eat nor drink, Though dearth be none, conscious that other wo Surpassing this I can have none to fear. No, not if tidings of my father’s death395 Should reach me, who, this moment, weeps, perhaps, In Phthia tears of tenderest regret For such a son; while I, remote from home Fight for detested Helen under Troy. Nor even were _he_ dead, whom, if he live,400 I rear in Scyros, my own darling son, My Neoptolemus of form divine.[10] For still this hope I cherish’d in my breast Till now, that, of us two, myself alone Should fall at Ilium, and that thou, restored405 To Phthia, should’st have wafted o’er the waves My son from Scyros to his native home, That thou might’st show him all his heritage, My train of menials, and my fair abode. For either dead already I account410 Peleus, or doubt not that his residue Of miserable life shall soon be spent, Through stress of age and expectation sad That tidings of my death shall, next, arrive. So spake Achilles weeping, around whom415