Ever delightsome, one sweet grace fed still with one sweet mind.” Thus spake she weeping; and with her, did th’ other ladies moan Patroclus’ fortunes in pretext, but in sad truth their own. About Æacides himself the kings of Greece were plac’d, Entreating him to food; and he entreated them as fast, Still intermixing words and sighs, if any friend were there Of all his dearest, they would cease, and offer him no cheer But his due sorrows; for before the sun had left that sky He would not eat, but of that day sustain th’ extremity. Thus all the kings, in res’lute grief and fasting, he dismiss’d; But both th’ Atrides, Ithacus, and war’s old Martialist, Idomenëus and his friend, and Phœnix, these remain’d Endeavouring comfort, but no thought of his vow’d woe restrain’d. Nor could, till that day’s bloody fight had calm’d his blood; he still Remember’d something of his friend, whose good was all his ill. Their urging meat the diligent fashion of his friend renew’d In that excitement: “Thou,” said he, “when this speed was pursued Against the Trojans, evermore apposedst in my tent A pleasing breakfast; being so free, and sweetly diligent, Thou mad’st all meat sweet. Then the war was tearful to our foe But now to me; thy wounds so wound me, and thy overthrow; For which my ready food I fly, and on thy longings feed. Nothing could more afflict me; Fame relating the foul deed Of my dear father’s slaughter, blood drawn from my sole son’s heart, No more could wound me. Curséd man, that in this foreign part (For hateful Helen) my true love, my country, sire, and son, I thus should part with. Scyros now gives educatión,[1] O Neoptolemus, to thee, if living yet; from whence I hop’d, dear friend, thy longer life safely return’d from hence, And my life quitting thine, had pow’r to ship him home, and show His young eyes Phthia, subjects, court; my father being now Dead, or most short-liv’d, troublous age oppressing him, and fear Still of my death’s news.” These sad words, he blew into the ear Of ev’ry visitant with sighs, all echo’d by the peers, Rememb’ring who they left at home. All whose so humane tears Jove pitied; and, since they all would in the good of one Be much reviv’d, he thus bespake Minerva: “Thetis’ son, Now, daughter, thou hast quite forgot. O, is Achilles care Extinguish’d in thee? Prostrated in most extreme ill fare, He lies before his high-sail’d fleet, for his dead friend; the rest Are strength’ning them with meat, but he lies desp’rately oppress’d With heartless fasting. Go thy ways, and to his breast instill Red nectar and ambrosia, that fast procure no ill To his near enterprise.” This spur he added to the free, And, like a harpy, with a voice that shrieks so dreadfully, And feathers that like needles prick’d, she stoop’d through all the stars, Amongst the Grecians, all whose tents were now fill’d for the wars; Her seres strook through Achilles’ tent, and closely she instill’d Heav’n’s most-to-be-desired feast to his great breast, and fill’d