These plagues amongst us; and this still will empty in our heartsHis 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
