My son, that thou mayst still be the defence Of Ilium’s sons and daughters, nor increase The glory of Pelides with the loss Of thine own life. Have pity upon me, Who only live to suffer⁠—whom the son Of Saturn, on the threshold of my age, Hath destined to endure a thousand griefs, And then to be destroyed⁠—to see my sons Slain by the sword, my daughters dragged away Into captivity, their chambers made A spoil, our infants dashed against the ground By cruel hands, the consorts of my sons Borne off by the ferocious Greeks; and last, Perchance the very dogs which I have fed Here in my palaces and at my board, The guardians of my doors, when, by the spear Or sword, some enemy shall take my life, And at my threshold leave me stretched a corpse, Will rend me, and, with savage greediness, Will lap my blood, and in the porch lie down. When one in prime of youth lies slain in war, Gashed with the spear, his wounds become him well, And honor him in all men’s eyes; but when An aged man is slain, and his white head