But not his palate; while another boy, Whose parents both are living, thrusts him thence With blows and vulgar clamor: ‘Get thee gone! Thy father is not with us at the feast.’ Then to his widowed mother shall return Astyanax in tears, who not long since Was fed, while sitting in his father’s lap, On marrow and the delicate fat of lambs. And ever when his childish sports had tired The boy, and sleep came stealing over him, He slumbered, softly cushioned, on a couch And in his nurse’s arms, his heart at ease And satiate with delights. But now thy son Astyanax⁠—whom so the Trojans name Because thy valor guarded gate and tower⁠— Thy care withdrawn, shall suffer many things. While far from those who gave thee birth, beside The roomy ships of Greece, the restless worms Shall make thy flesh their banquet when the dogs Have gorged themselves. Thy garments yet remain Within the palace, delicately wrought And graceful, woven by the women’s hands; And these, since thou shalt put them on no more, Nor wear them in thy death, I burn with fire