“O, idle were the words which once I spake, When in our palace-halls I bade the chief Menoetius bear a cheerful heart. I said That I would bring to Opus yet again, Laden with spoil from Ilium overthrown, His valiant son. But Jove doth not fulfil The plans of men. That both of us should stain Earth with our blood in Troy was the decree Of fate, and never will the aged knight Peleus receive me in his palace-halls, Returning from the war, nor Thetis, she Who gave me birth; the earth will hold me here. And now, since after thee I take my place In earth, Patroclus, I will not perform Thy funeral rites before I bring to thee The arms and head of the magnanimous chief Hector, who slew thee. By thy funeral pile I will strike off in vengeance for thy death The heads of twelve illustrious Trojan youths. Thou meanwhile, lying at the beaked ships, Shalt be lamented night and day, with tears, By many a Trojan and Dardanian maid, Deep-bosomed, won by our victorious spears After hard wars and opulent cities sacked.”