And, like a stranger, for all rites, fit for our good, refus’d My heart doth swell against the man, that durst be so profane To violate his sacred place; not for my private bane, But since wrack’d virtue’s gen’ral laws he shameless did infringe; For whose sake I will loose the reins, and give mine anger swinge, Without my wisdom’s least impeach. He is a fool, and base, That pities vice-plagu’d minds, when pain, not love of right, gives place. And therefore tell your king, my lords, my just wrath will not care For all his cares, before my tents and navy chargéd are By warlike Hector, making way through flocks of Grecian lives, Enlighten’d by their naval fire; but when his rage arrives About my tent, and sable bark, I doubt not but to shield Them and myself, and make him fly the there strong-bounded field.” This said, each one but kiss’d the cup, and to the ships retir’d; Ulysses first. Patroclus then the men and maids requir’d To make grave Phœnix’ bed with speed, and see he nothing lacks. They straight obey’d, and thereon laid the subtile fruit of flax, And warm sheep-fells for covering; and there the old man slept, Attending till the golden Morn her usual station kept. Achilles lay in th’ inner room of his tent richly wrought, And that fair lady by his side, that he from Lesbos brought, Bright Diomeda, Phorbas’ seed. Patroclus did embrace The beauteous Iphis, giv’n to him, when his bold friend did race The lofty Scyrus that was kept in Enyeius’ hold. Now at the tent of Atreus’ son, each man with cups of gold Receiv’d th’ ambassadors return’d. All cluster’d near to know What news they brought; which first the king would have Ulysses show: “Say, most praiseworthy Ithacus, the Grecians’ great renown, Will he defend us? Or not yet will his proud stomach down?” Ulysses made reply: “Not yet will he appeaséd be, But grows more wrathful, prizing light thy offer’d gifts and thee, And wills thee to consult with us, and take some other course To save our army and our fleet, and says, ‘with all his force, The morn shall light him on his way to Phthia’s wishéd soil, For never shall high-seated Troy be sack’d with all our toil, Jove holds his hand ’twixt us and it, the soldiers gather heart.’ Thus he replies, which Ajax here can equally impart, And both these heralds. Phœnix stays, for so was his desire, To go with him, if he thought good; if not, he might retire.” All wonder’d he should be so stern; at last bold Diomed spake: “Would God, Atrides, thy request were yet to undertake, And all thy gifts unoffer’d him! He’s proud enough beside, But this ambassage thou hast sent will make him burst with pride. But let us suffer him to stay, or go, at his desire, Fight when his stomach serves him best, or when Jove shall inspire. Meanwhile, our watch being strongly held, let us a little rest After our food; strength lives by both, and virtue is their guest. Then when the rosy-finger’d Morn holds out her silver light,