And through whose hundred gates rush men and steeds, Two hundred through each gate;⁠—nay, should he give As many gifts as there are sands and dust Of earth⁠—not even then shall Atreus’ son Persuade me, till I reap a just revenge For his foul contumelies. I will wed No child of Agamemnon. Even though She vied with golden Venus in her charms, And with the blue-eyed Pallas in her skill, I would not wed her. Let him choose among The Greeks a fitter husband⁠—one whose rule Is wider than my own. For if the gods Preserve me, and I reach my home again, My father, Peleus, will bestow on me A consort. Many are the Achaian maids, Daughters of chiefs who hold our citadels In Hellas, and in Phthia, and of these, Her who shall most delight me I will make My well-beloved wife. My soul has longed Earnestly, with a fitting spouse betrothed Duly, to make my dwelling there, and there Enjoy the wealth which aged Peleus won; For not to be compared with life is all The wealth which, as men say, was treasured up