If from a female hand that virtue springs, Which to the gods and men such pleasure brings. Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine, Nor for more altars or more fanes repine; Oh that such trifles were the only cause From whence Aurora’s mind its anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only child, With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill’d; My warrior son! that lived but half his time, Nipp’d in the bud, and blasted in his prime; Who for his uncle early took the field, And by Achilles’ fatal spear was kill’d. To whom but Jove should I for succour come? For Jove alone could fix his cruel doom. Oh sovereign of the gods, accept my prayer, Grant my request, and soothe a mother’s care; On the deceased some solemn boon bestow, To expiate the loss, and ease my wo.”