 | Hector |  |
SCENE II.
The Tent of Achilles.Achilles, Ulysses, &c. &c.
Achil.
Princes, all hail! welcome, though Greeks. To me
Ye come not foes, but to my heart are dearer
Than all that bear the name. Patroclus haste,
Fill up a larger cup with older wine,
For we shall mix our souls. Of all the host
Thy friend most values these, and these thy friend.
Ulys.
Hail to Achilles! happy are his guests,
Not higher honored they, that at the board
Of Agamemnon feast. But on our minds
Lie heavier cares, than feasts or bowls can ease.
Greece driven to the brink of fate implores
Thy aid, and owns no saving arm but thine:
Troy strides to vengeance, and her threatening tents
Darken our wall—Hark! how she shouts, and points
The desolating fire against our fleet.
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And rolls for her the omen. Full of Jove,
See where proud Hector o'er the dead dilates,
And Heaven and earth defies. O must we, Gods!
To day inglorious feed the Trojan soil!
Return Achilles—Oh, though late, return
To serve thy friends, and stop the doom of Greece!
Ach.
What in my soul is fix'd, my tongue proclaims,
And action still confirms. Let Greece then know
My rivetted resolve, nor teaze in vain.
Long time, long toils I in her service bore;
But barren glory now has ceas'd to charm.
I sack'd twelve cities on the sea-beat coast;
And twelve I burnt upon the Trojan plain,
And at the haughty feet of your proud lord
Laid all the spoil. All he in peace obtained.
Presents to ev'ry prince were made, and theirs
They still enjoy; but I alone of all
Must mine restore. 'Tis I that must restore!
My share, mine only can his lust appease;
But let him use the woman as he may,
He has her now. Never my sword again
Shall be unsheath'd in any woman's cause!
Ye have my answer.
Ulys.
Prince, divinely brave,
Regard thy father's counsel, ere too late.
When in his arms he prest thee at departure,
Dost thou remember what his blessing was?
‘My son, may Juno and Minerva crown
Thy arms with strength and fame. Trust that to Heav'n:
Be thy own care thy passions to subdue;
Contention shun, and win by manners mild
The happy honors of urbanity.’
Such were his words—but words, alas! despised.
If thou wilt yield to Agamemnon's pray'r,
Gifts worthy thee—
Ach.
All gifts from him are hateful!
Kings of his cast stand but as cringing slaves
Before the noble mind. Not though he proffer'd
All he himself possess'd, and all his grasp
Could tear from others of their dearly won;
With all the ceaseless golden tide that flows
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Not all the wealth and countless stores that lie
In the magnificence of Thebes; though he
Heap'd bribes on bribes, with gems out-numb'ring all
The stars of heav'n, and sands on the sea-shore;
Should all these offers ask again my friendship,
'Tis he that offers, and I scorn them all!
Ulys.
The Gods themselves, bethink thee, mortal man,
Are mov'd by offerings, vows, and sacrifice.
Ach.
Thou hast said well; but at the tyrant's name
My rage rekindles, and my soul is fir'd!
Not till amidst the navy wrapt in flame
The Grecian blood to crimson stain the sea;
Not till the flames, by Hector's fury driven,
Consume your vessels, and approach my own;
Just then th'impetuous homicide shall stand
Depriv'd of triumph, and depriv'd by me.
[Exeunt all but Achilles and Patroclus.
| Hector | |