 | Hector |  |
SCENE III.
Ach.What means this grief, Patroclus? why these tears?
Griev'st thou for me—or for my martial train?
Or some sad tidings from our native land?
Or for some meaner cause?—perhaps the fate
Of yonder Greeks, doom'd in their ships to pay
The forfeit of their proud imperious lord?
Pat.
Let Greece at length touch thy obdurate breast;
For every chief that might avert the doom
Lies bleeding, or lies dead.
Ach.
My wrongs—my wrongs!
These all my thoughts engage.
Pat.
Unpitying man!
Oh sure thou spring'st not from a soft embrace!
Thy country slighted in her last distress,
Who shall from thee mercy or justice hope?
No: men unborn shall curse thy stubborn mind,
Thy unforgiving and relentless heart!
Ach.
But hear me speak!—The wrong I grieve is past,
I fix'd its period, and the hour draws nigh.
Now Hector to my ships the battle drives;
I see his fires, and hear the Trojans shout.
Behold the thin remains of all the Greeks
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It was not thus, when in the van of war
I gave the battle, and saw back in heaps
The proudest waves of Trojan valor roll
Before my coming tempest. Now from all,
The cry is Hector!—and his dreadful voice
Commands the slaughter, and commissions death!
But haste, Patroclus, hasten to the fight;
Now save the ships, repress the rising flames;
Yet heed my words, and mark thy friend's command,
Who trusts to thee his honor:—with full sweep
Rage o'er the hostile crew—drive uncontrould,
But touch not Hector—Hector is my prey!
[Exeunt.
| Hector | |