“Thy well-known captive, great Achilles! see, Once more Lycaon trembles at thy knee. Some pity to a suppliant’s name afford, Who shared the gifts of Ceres at thy board; Whom late thy conquering arm to Lemnos bore, Far from his father, friends, and native shore; A hundred oxen were his price that day, Now sums immense thy mercy shall repay. Scarce respited from woes I yet appear, And scarce twelve morning suns have seen me here; Lo! Jove again submits me to thy hands, Again, her victim cruel Fate demands! I sprang from Priam, and Laothoe fair, (Old Altes’ daughter, and Lelegia’s heir; Who held in Pedasus his famed abode, And ruled the fields where silver Satnio flow’d,) Two sons (alas! unhappy sons) she bore; For ah! one spear shall drink each brother’s gore, And I succeed to slaughter’d Polydore. How from that arm of terror shall I fly? Some demon urges! ’tis my doom to die! If ever yet soft pity touch’d thy mind, Ah! think not me too much of Hector’s kind! Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath, With his, who wrought thy loved Patroclus’ death.”