Good allies I have had since first the Greek Set foot in Troy, and never heard them speak Complaint of Hector. Thou wilt be the first. I have not, by God's mercy, such a thirst For horses as to murder for their sake. [_He turns to his own men._ Odysseus! Yet again Odysseus! Take All the Greek armies, is there one but he Could have devised, or dared, this devilry? [vv. 862-876] I fear him; yea, fear in mine own despite, Lest Dolon may have crossed him in the night And perished; 'tis so long he cometh not. THRACIAN. I know not who Odysseus is, nor what. I know it was no Greek that wounded us. HECTOR. To think thus pleasures thee? Well, have it thus. THRACIAN. Home, home! To die at home and rest my head! HECTOR. Nay, die not, friend. We have enough of dead. THRACIAN. How can I live? Lost, and my master slain. HECTOR. My house will shelter thee and heal thy pain. THRACIAN. Thy house? Will murderers' nursing give me peace? HECTOR. Still the same tale! This man will never cease. THRACIAN. My curse rest--not on Hector, but on those Who stabbed us, as thou say'st.--Ah, Justice knows! HECTOR. [vv. 877-891] There, lift him.--Bear him to my house. Take pains, If care can do it, that the man complains No more of Troy.--Ye others, bear withal To Priam and the Elders of the Wall My charge, that, where the cart-road from the plain Branches, they make due burial for our slain. [_One party of Guards lifts carefully the wounded_ THRACIAN _and goes off bearing him: another departs with the message to Troy_. CHORUS. Back from the heights of happiness, Back, back, to labour and distress Some god that is not ours doth lead Troy and her sons; He sows the seed, Who knows the reaping? [_In the air at the back there appears a Vision of the_ MUSE _holding the body of her dead son_ RHESUS. Ah! Ah! My king, what cometh? There appears Some Spirit, like a mist of tears; And in her arms a man lieth, So young, so wearied unto death; To see such vision presageth Wrath and great weeping. [_The Guards hide their heads in their mantles._ MUSE. Nay, look your fill, ye Trojans. It is I, The many-sistered Muse, of worship high In wise men's hearts, who come to mourn mine own [vv. 892-914] Most pitifully loved, most injured, son, For whose shed blood Odysseus yet shall pay Vengeance, who crawled and stabbed him where he lay.