Of many things, whereof a part would make a cómplete feast. Nor can we joy in these kind rites, that have our hearts oppress’d, O prince, with fear of utter spoil. ’Tis made a question now, If we can save our fleet or not, unless thyself endow Thy pow’rs with wonted fortitude. Now Troy and her consórts, Bold of thy want, have pitch’d their tents close to our fleet and forts, And made a firmament of fires; and now no more, they say, Will they be prison’d in their walls, but force their violent way Ev’n to our ships; and Jove himself hath with his lightnings show’d Their bold adventures happy signs; and Hector grows so proud Of his huge strength, borne out by Jove, that fearfully he raves, Presuming neither men nor Gods can interrupt his braves. Wild rage invades him, and he prays that soon the sacred Morn Would light his fury; boasting then our streamers shall be torn, And all our naval ornaments fall by his conqu’ring stroke, Our ships shall burn, and we ourselves lie stifled in the smoke. And I am seriously afraid, Heav’n will perform his threats, And that ’tis fatal to us all, far from our native seats, To perish in victorious Troy. But rise, though it be late, Deliver the afflicted Greeks from Troy’s tumultuous hate; It will hereafter be thy grief, when no strength can suffice To remedy th’ effected threats of our calamities. Consider these affairs in time, while thou mayst use thy pow’r. And have the grace to turn from Greece fate’s unrecover’d hour. O friend, thou know’st thy royal sire forewarn’d what should be done, That day he sent thee from his court to honour Atreus’ son: ‘My son,’ said he, ‘the victory let Jove and Pallas use At their high pleasures, but do thou no honour’d means refuse That may advance her. In fit bounds contain thy mighty mind, Nor let the knowledge of thy strength be factiously inclin’d, Contriving mischiefs. Be to fame and gen’ral good profess’d. The more will all sorts honour thee. Benignity is best.’ Thus charg’d thy sire, which thou forgett’st. Yet now those thoughts appease, That torture thy great spirit with wrath; which if thou wilt surcease, The king will merit it with gifts; and, if thou wilt give ear, I’ll tell how much he offers thee yet thou sitt’st angry here: Sev’n tripods that no fire must touch; twice-ten pans, fit for flame; Ten talents of fine gold; twelve horse that ever overcame, And brought huge prises from the field, with swiftness of their feet, That man should bear no poor account, nor want gold’s quick’ning sweet, That had but what he won with them; sev’n worthiest Lesbian dames, Renown’d for skill in housewif’ry, and bear the sov’reign fames For beauty from their gen’ral sex, which, at thy overthrow Of well-built Lesbos, he did choose; and these he will bestow, And with these her he took from thee, whom, by his state, since then, He swears he touch’d not, as fair dames use to be touch’d by men. All these are ready for thee now. And, if at length we take,