“O wait not, Hector, my beloved son, To combat with Pelides, thus alone And far from succor, lest thou meet thy death, Slain by his hand, for he is mightier far Than thou art. Would that he, the cruel one, Were but as much the favorite of the gods As he is mine! Then should the birds of prey And dogs devour his carcass, and the grief That weighs upon my spirit would depart. I have been robbed by him of many sons⁠— Brave youths, whom he has slain or sold as slaves In distant isles; and now I see no more Among our host on whom the gates are closed My Polydorus and Lycaon, whom The peerless dame Laothoe bore to me. If yet they are within the Grecian camp, I will redeem their lives with brass and gold; For I have store, which Altes, the renowned And aged, gave his daughter. If they live No longer, but have passed to the abode Of Hades, bitter will our sorrow be⁠— Mine and their mother’s⁠—but the popular grief Will sooner be consoled if thou fall not, Slain by Achilles. Come within the walls,