Achaian army! For the Greeks Endure a bitter lot. The chiefs who late Were deemed their mightiest are within the ships, Wounded or stricken down. There Diomed, The gallant son of Tydeus, lies, and there Ulysses, the great spearman, wounded both; And Agamemnon; and Eurypylus, Driven from the field, an arrow in his thigh. Round them the healers, skilled in remedies, Attend and dress their painful wounds, while thou, Achilles, sittest here implacable. O, never be such fierce resentments mine As thou dost cherish, who art only brave For mischief! Whom wilt thou hereafter aid, If now thou rescue not the perishing Greeks? O merciless! It cannot surely be That Peleus was thy father, or the queen Thetis thy mother; the green sea instead And rugged precipices brought thee forth, For savage is thy heart. But if thou heed The warning of some god, if thou hast heard Aught which thy goddess-mother has received From Jove, send me at least into the war, And let me lead thy Myrmidons, that thus The Greeks may have some gleam of hope. And give The armor from thy shoulders. I will wear Thy mail, and then the Trojans, at the sight, May think I am Achilles, and may pause From fighting, and the warlike sons of Greece, Tired as they are, may breathe once more, and gain A respite from the conflict. Our fresh troops May easily drive back upon their town The weary Trojans from our tents and fleet.”
So spake he, sighing; rash and blind, he asked Death for himself and evil destiny. Achilles the swift-footed also drew A heavy sigh, and thus in turn he spake:—
“What, O divine Patroclus, hast thou said? I fear no omen yet revealed to me; Nor has my goddess-mother told me aught From Jove; but ever in my heart and soul Rankles the painful sense of injury done By one who, having greater power, deprives An equal of his right, and takes away The prize he won. This is my wrong, and this The cause of all my bitterness of heart. Her whom the sons of Greece bestowed on me As my reward, a trophy of my spear, After the sack of a fenced city—her Did