The Iliads of Homer. Homer

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       His deathful quiver, uncontain'd till to her lovéd sire

       The black-eyed damsel be resign'd; no rédemptory hire

       Took for her freedom,-not a gift, but all the ransom quit,

       And she convey'd, with sacrifice, till her enfranchis'd feet

       Tread Chrysa under; then the God, so pleas'd, perhaps we may

       Move to remission." Thus, he sate; and up, the great in sway,

       Heroic Agamemnon rose, eagérly bearing all;

       His mind's seat overcast with fumes; an anger general

       Fill'd all his faculties; his eyes sparkled like kindling fire,

       Which sternly cast upon the priest, thus vented he his ire:

       "Prophet of ill! for never good came from thee towards me

       Not to a word's worth; evermore thou took'st delight to be

       Offensive in thy auguries, which thou continu'st still,

       Now casting thy prophetic gall, and vouching all our ill,

       Shot from Apollo, is impos'd since I refus'd the price

       Of fair Chryseis' liberty; which would in no worth rise

       To my rate of herself, which moves my vows to have her home,

       Past Clytemnestra loving her, that grac'd my nuptial room

       With her virginity and flow'r. Nor ask her merits less

       For person, disposition, wit, and skill in housewif'ries.

       And yet, for all this, she shall go, if more conducible

       That course be than her holding here. I rather wish the weal

       Of my lov'd army than the death. Provide yet instantly

       Supply for her, that I alone of all our royalty

       Lose not my winnings. 'Tis not fit. Ye see all I lose mine

       Forc'd by another, see as well some other may resign

       His prise to me." To this replied the swift-foot, god-like, son

       Of Thetis, thus: "King of us all, in all ambition

       Most covetous of all that breathe, why should the great-soul'd

       Greeks

       Supply thy lost prise out of theirs? Nor what thy av'rice seeks

       Our common treasury can find; so little it doth guard

       Of what our ras'd towns yielded us; of all which most is shar'd,

       And giv'n our soldiers; which again to take into our hands

       Were ignominious and base. Now then, since God commands,

       Part with thy most-lov'd prise to him; not any one of us

       Exacts it of thee, yet we all, all loss thou suffer'st thus,

       Will treble, quadruple, in gain, when Jupiter bestows

       The sack of well-wall'd Troy on us; which by his word he owes."

       "Do not deceive yourself with wit," he answer'd, "god-like man,

       Though your good name may colour it; 'tis not your swift foot can

       Outrun me here; nor shall the gloss, set on it with the God,

       Persuade me to my wrong. Wouldst thou maintain in sure abode

       Thine own prise, and slight me of mine? Resolve this: if our

       friends,

       As fits in equity my worth, will right me with amends,

       So rest it; otherwise, myself will enter personally

       On thy prise, that of Ithacus, or Ajax, for supply;

       Let him on whom I enter rage. But come, we'll order these

       Hereafter, and in other place. Now put to sacred seas

       Our black sail; in it rowers put, in it fit sacrifice;

       And to these I will make ascend my so much envied prise,

       Bright-cheek'd Chryseis. For conduct of all which, we must choose

       A chief out of our counsellors. Thy service we must use,

       Idomenëus; Ajax, thine; or thine, wise Ithacus;

       Or thine, thou terriblest of men, thou son of Peleüs,

       Which fittest were, that thou might'st see these holy acts

       perform'd

       For which thy cunning zeal so pleads; and he, whose bow thus

       storm'd

       For our offences, may be calm'd." Achilles, with a frown,

       Thus answer'd: "O thou impudent! of no good but thine own

       Ever respectful, but of that with all craft covetous,

       With what heart can a man attempt a service dangerous,

       Or at thy voice be spirited to fly upon a foe,

       Thy mind thus wretched? For myself, I was not injur'd so

       By any Trojan, that my pow'rs should bid them any blows;

       In nothing bear they blame of me; Phthia, whose bosom flows

       With corn and people, never felt impair of her increase

       By their invasion; hills enow, and far-resounding seas,

       Pour out their shades and deeps between; but thee, thou frontless

       man,

       We follow, and thy triumphs make with bonfires of our bane;

       Thine, and thy brother's, vengeance sought, thou dog's eyes, of

       this Troy

       By our expos'd lives; whose deserts thou neither dost employ

       With honour nor with care. And now, thou threat'st to force from me

       The fruit of my sweat, which the Greeks gave all; and though it be,

       Compar'd with thy part, then snatch'd up, nothing; nor ever is

       At any sack'd town; but of fight, the fetcher in of this,

       My hands have most share; in whose toils when I have emptied me

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