Lo! the sad father, frantic with his pain, Around him furious drives his menial train: In vain each slave with duteous care attends, Each office hurts him, and each face offends. “What make ye here, officious crowds! (he cries): Hence! nor obtrude your anguish on my eyes. Have ye no griefs at home, to fix ye there: Am I the only object of despair? Am I become my people’s common show, Set up by Jove your spectacle of woe? No, you must feel him too; yourselves must fall; The same stern god to ruin gives you all: Nor is great Hector lost by me alone; Your sole defence, your guardian power is gone! I see your blood the fields of Phrygia drown, I see the ruins of your smoking town! O send me, gods! ere that sad day shall come, A willing ghost to Pluto’s dreary dome!”