“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 Agamemnon, son of Atreus, take Out of my hands, as if I were a wretch, A worthless outcast. But let that affront Be with the things that were. It is not well To bear a grudge forever. I have said My anger should not cease to burn until The clamor of the battle and the assault Should reach the fleet. But go thou and put on My well-known armor; lead into the field My Myrmidons, men that rejoice in war, Since like a lowering cloud the men of Troy Surround the fleet, and the Achaians stand