“Of what dost thou complain; what wouldst thou more, Atrides? In thy tents are heaps of gold; Thy tents are full of chosen damsels, given To thee before all others, by the Greeks, Whene’er we take a city. Dost thou yet Hanker for gold, brought by some Trojan knight, A ransom for his son, whom I shall lead⁠— I, or some other Greek⁠—a captive bound? Or dost thou wish, for thy more idle hours, Some maiden, whom thou mayst detain apart? Ill it beseems a prince like thee to lead The sons of Greece, for such a cause as this, Into new perils. O ye coward race! Ye abject Greeklings, Greeks no longer, haste Homeward with all the fleet, and let us leave This man at Troy to win his trophies here, That he may learn whether the aid we give Avails him aught or not, since he insults Achilles, a far braver man than he, And takes from him by force and holds his prize. And yet, Achilles is not moved by this To anger: he is spiritless, or else, Atrides, this injustice were thy last.”