“I clasp thy knees, Achilles; look on me Kindly and pity me, O foster-child Of Jove. I am thy suppliant, and may claim Thy mercy. I partook with thee the fruits Of Ceres, when amid my fruitful fields Thou madest me a captive, carrying me From friends and kindred to the sacred isle Of Lemnos. Thou didst sell me there⁠—my price A hundred beeves⁠—and thou shalt now receive, For ransom, thrice as many. It is yet But the twelfth morning since I came to Troy After much hardship, and a pitiless fate Betrays me to thy hands. I must believe That Father Jove in wrath delivers me To thee again. Laothoe brought me forth To a brief life; that mother was the child Of aged Altes⁠—Altes ruling o’er The warlike Leleges, by whom are tilled The heights of Pedasus, where Satnio flows⁠— And Priam wedded her with other maids. She bore two children to be slain by thee; One was the godlike Polydore, whom thou Didst smite with thy keen spear, in the front rank Of those who fought on foot. His evil fate