Hect. I do believe thee; live.

Thers. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but the devil break thy neck for frighting me. [Aside.

Troil. (returning.) What prisoner have you there?

Hect. A gleaning of the war; a rogue, he says.

Troil. Dispatch him, and away. [Going to kill him.

Thers. Hold, hold!—­what, is it no more but dispatch a man and away!  I am in no such haste:  I will not die for Greece; I hate Greece, and by my good will would never have been born there; I was mistaken into that country, and betrayed by my parents to be born there.  And besides, I have a mortal enemy among the Grecians, one Diomede, a damned villain, and cannot die with a safe conscience till I have first murdered him.

Troil. Shew me that Diomede, and thou shalt live.

Thers. Come along with me, and I will conduct thee to Calchas’s tent, where I believe he is now, making war with the priest’s daughter.

Hect. Here we must part, our destinies divide us; Brother and friend, farewell.

Troil. When shall we meet?

Hect. When the gods please; if not, we once must part.  Look; on yon hill their squandered troops unite.

Troil. If I mistake not, ’tis their last reserve:  The storm’s blown o’er, and those but after-drops.

Hect. I wish our men be not too far engaged;
For few we are and spent, as having born
The burthen of the day:  But, hap what can,
They shall be charged; Achilles must be there,
And him I seek, or death. 
Divide our troops, and take the fresher half.

Troil. O brother!

Hect. No dispute of ceremony: 
These are enow for me, in faith enow. 
Their bodies shall not flag while I can lead;
Nor wearied limbs confess mortality,
Before those ants, that blacken all yon hill,
Are crept into the earth.  Farewell. [Exit HECT.

Troil. Farewell.—­Come, Greek.

Thers. Now these rival rogues will clapperclaw one another, and I shall have the sport of it. [Exit TROIL. with THERS.

  Enter ACHILLES and Myrmidons.

Achill. Which way went Hector?

Myrmid. Up yon sandy hill;
You may discern them by their smoking track: 
A wavering body working with bent hams
Against the rising, spent with painful march,
And by loose footing cast on heaps together.

Achil. O thou art gone, thou sweetest, best of friends! 
Why did I let thee tempt the shock of war,
Ere yet the tender nerves had strung thy limbs,
And knotted into strength!  Yet, though too late,
I will, I will revenge thee, my Patroclus! 
Nor shall thy ghost thy murderers long attend,
But thou shalt hear him calling Charon back,
Ere thou art wafted to the farther shore.—­
Make haste, my soldiers; give me this day’s pains
For my dead friend:  strike every hand with mine,
Till Hector breathless on the ground we lay! 
Revenge is honour, the securest way. [Exit with Myrm.