The swift Achilles, sighing deeply, made This answer: “O my mother! True it is Olympian Jove hath done all this for me; But how can that delight me, since my friend, My well-beloved Patroclus, is no more? He whom, of all my fellows in the war, I prized the most, and loved as my own self, Is lost to me, and Hector, by whose hand He was cut off, has spoiled him of his arms⁠— His dreaded arms, a wonder to the sight And glorious, which the gods of heaven bestowed On Peleus, sumptuous bridal gifts, when thou Wert led by them to share a mortal’s bed. Yet would that thou hadst evermore remained Among the immortal dwellers of the deep, And Peleus had espoused a mortal maid, Since now thy heart must ache with infinite grief For thy slain son, whom thou shalt never more Welcome returning to his home. No wish Have I to live or to concern myself In men’s affairs, save this: that Hector first, Pierced by my spear, shall yield his life, and pay The debt of vengeance for Patroclus slain.”