Again the swift Achilles, sighing, spake: “Then quickly let me die, since fate denied That I should aid my friend against the foes That slew him. Far from his own land he fell, And longed for me to rescue him. And now, Since I am never more to see the land I love, and since I went not to defend Patroclus, nor the other Greeks, my friends, Of whom so many have fallen by the hand Of noble Hector, but beside the fleet Am sitting here, a useless weight on earth, Mighty in battle as I am beyond The other Grecian warriors, though excelled By other men in council⁠—would that Strife Might perish among gods and men, with Wrath, Which makes even wise men cruel, and, though sweet At first as dropping honey, growing, fills The heart with its foul smoke. Such was my rage, Aroused by Agamemnon, king of men. Yet now, though great my wrong, let things like these Rest with the past, and, as the time requires, Let us subdue the spirit in our breasts. I go in quest of Hector, by whose hand My friend was slain. My death will I accept