In arms, and nought inferior to the Greeks. 
    Then thus the godlike Priam, hoary King. 
  But tell me first who Thou art, and from whom
  Descended, loveliest youth! who hast the fate
  So well of my unhappy son rehearsed? 490
    To whom the herald Mercury replied. 
  Thy questions, venerable sire! proposed
  Concerning noble Hector, are design’d
  To prove me.  Him, not seldom, with these eyes
  In man-ennobling fight I have beheld 495
  Most active; saw him when he thinn’d the Greeks
  With his sharp spear, and drove them to the ships. 
  Amazed we stood to notice him; for us,
  Incensed against the ruler of our host,
  Achilles suffer’d not to share the fight. 500
  I serve Achilles; the same gallant bark
  Brought us, and of the Myrmidons am I,
  Son of Polyctor; wealthy is my sire,
  And such in years as thou; six sons he hath,
  Beside myself the seventh, and (the lots cast 505
  Among us all) mine sent me to the wars. 
  That I have left the ships, seeking the plain,
  The cause is this; the Greeks, at break of day,
  Will compass, arm’d, the city, for they loathe
  To sit inactive, neither can the chiefs 510
  Restrain the hot impatience of the host. 
    Then godlike Priam answer thus return’d. 
  If of the band thou be of Peleus’ son,
  Achilles, tell me undisguised the truth. 
  My son, subsists he still, or hath thy chief 515
  Limb after limb given him to his dogs? 
    Him answer’d then the herald of the skies. 
  Oh venerable sir! him neither dogs
  Have eaten yet, nor fowls, but at the ships
  His body, and within Achilles’ tent 520
  Neglected lies.  Twelve days he so hath lain;
  Yet neither worm which diets on the brave
  In battle fallen, hath eaten him, or taint
  Invaded.  He around Patroclus’ tomb
  Drags him indeed pitiless, oft as day 525
  Reddens the east, yet safe from blemish still
  His corse remains.  Thou wouldst, thyself, admire
  Seeing how fresh the dew-drops, as he lies,
  Rest on him, and his blood is cleansed away
  That not a stain is left.  Even his wounds 530
  (For many a wound they gave him) all are closed,
  Such care the blessed Gods have of thy son,
  Dead as he is, whom living much they loved. 
    So he; then, glad, the ancient King replied. 
  Good is it, oh my son! to yield the Gods 535
  Their just demands.  My boy, while yet he lived,
  Lived not unmindful of the worship due
  To the Olympian powers, who, therefore, him
  Remember, even in the bands of death. 
  Come then—­this beauteous cup take at my hand—­ 540
  Be thou my guard, and, if the Gods permit,