His vent'rous purpose, and replied: "O whither now is fled
The late discretion that renown'd thy grave and knowing head
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In foreign and thine own rul'd realms, that thus thou dar'st assay
Sight of that man, in whose brow sticks the horrible decay
1
Of sons so many, and so strong? Thy heart is iron I think.
If this stern man, whose thirst of blood makes cruelty his drink,
Take, or but see, thee, thou art dead. He nothing pities woe,
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Nor honours age. Without his sight, we have enough to do
To mourn with thought of him. Keep we our palace, weep we here,
Our son is past our helps. Those throes, that my deliverers were
Of his unhappy lineaments, told me they should be torn
With black-foot dogs. Almighty Fate, that black hour he was born,
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Spun in his springing thread that end; far from his parents' reach,
This bloody fellow then ordain'd to be their mean, this wretch,
Whose stony liver would to heaven I might devour, my teeth
My son's revengers made! Curs'd Greek, he gave him not his death
Doing an ill work; he alone fought for his country, he
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Fled not, nor fear'd, but stood his worst; and cursed policy
Was his undoing." He replied: "Whatever was his end
Is not our question, we must now use all means to defend
His end from scandal; from which act dissuade not my just will,
Nor let me nourish in my house a bird presaging ill
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To my good actions; 'tis in vain. Had any earthly spirit
Given this suggestion, if our priests, or soothsayers, challenging merit
Of prophets, I might hold it false, and be the rather mov'd
To keep my palace, but these ears and these self eyes approv'd
It was a Goddess. I will go, for not a word She spake
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I know was idle. If it were, and that my fate will make
Quick riddance of me at the fleet, kill me, Achilles; come,
When getting to thee, I shall find a happy dying room
On Hector's bosom, when enough thirst of my tears finds there
Quench to his fervour."
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