“O favour’d of the skies! (thus answered then The power that mediates between god and men) Nor dogs nor vultures have thy Hector rent, But whole he lies, neglected in the tent: This the twelfth evening since he rested there, Untouch’d by worms, untainted by the air. Still as Aurora’s ruddy beam is spread, Round his friend’s tomb Achilles drags the dead: Yet undisfigured, or in limb or face, All fresh he lies, with every living grace, Majestical in death! No stains are found O’er all the corse, and closed is every wound, Though many a wound they gave. Some heavenly care, Some hand divine, preserves him ever fair: Or all the host of heaven, to whom he led A life so grateful, still regard him dead.”