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:⁠—