Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian name, And he, the base adulterer, boasts the fame; A spectacle to glad the Trojan train, And please old Priam, after Hector slain. If by a female hand he had foreseen He was to die, his wish had rather been The lance and double axe of the fair warrior queen. And now the terror of the Trojan field, The Grecian honour, ornament, and shield, High on a pile the unconquer’d chief is placed; The god that arm’d him first, consumed at last. Of all the mighty man, the small remains A little urn, and scarcely fill’d, contains. Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives, And equal to himself, himself survives.