Patroclus now the unwilling beauty brought; She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought, Pass’d silent, as the heralds held her hand, And oft look’d back, slow-moving o’er the strand. Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore; But sad, retiring to the sounding shore, O’er the wild margin of the deep he hung, That kindred deep from whence his mother sprung:[61] There bathed in tears of anger and disdain, Thus loud lamented to the stormy main: