 | Hector |  |
SCENE III.
The Tent of Agamemnon.Achilles, Agamemnon, &c.
Ach.
O King! far better sure had been the fate
Of thee, of me, of all the Grecian host,
If ere the day when, mad by passion, we
Contended for the luckless captive maid,
Had interposing Dian pierced her heart:
Long, long, shall Greece lament the woes we caused,
And distant ages oft repeat the tale.
But this is past—come let the curs'd debate
By us be all forgotten! Why should I,
A mortal man, with rage unquenchable
Still furious burn? Here then my anger ends.
Now rouse the war, and be the vengeance ours.
Agam.
What can the errors of my rage atone?
My troops, my treasures, all that I command
Are at thy will and taking.
Ach.
War I ask—
Give me but that. Here in the time we talk
Our work is slighted, and our duty suffers.
Uly.
Though godlike thou art by no toils oppress'd,
Our feebler troops crave respite and repose;
Let food again their wasted strength repair,
And daring spirit flow from generous wine,
346
Yet a short interval, and then the war.
Ach.
By Hector slain, their faces to the sky,
Behold our heroes grim with gaping wounds;
Pale lies my friend with ghastly gashes torn.
Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care
Can enter in the furious furnace here.
But go, ye chiefs, indulge the genial rite.
Destruction be my part, and flowing blood,
Riots of death and agonizing wounds!
[Exit.
| Hector | |