“Great sorrows thou dost send, O Father Jove! Upon mankind; for never would the son Of Atreus have provoked the wrath that burned Within my bosom, never would have thought To bear away the maiden from my tent In spite of me, had it not been the will Of Jupiter that many a Greek should die. But banquet now, and then prepare for war.”

So spake Achilles, and at once dissolved The assembly, each repairing to his ship Save the large-hearted Myrmidons, who still Were busy with the gifts, and carried them Toward their great general’s galley. These they laid Carefully in the tents, and seated there The women, while the attentive followers drave The coursers to the stables. When the maid Briseis, beautiful as Venus, saw Patroclus lying gashed with wounds, she sprang And threw herself upon the dead, and tore Her bosom, her fair cheeks and delicate neck; And thus the graceful maiden, weeping, said:⁠—