"Briseis, fair as golden Venus, saw Patroclus lying, pierced with mortal wounds, Within the tent; and with a bitter cry, She flung her down upon the corpse, and tore Her breast, her delicate neck, and beauteous cheeks; And, weeping, thus the lovely woman wailed: “Patroclus, dearly loved of this sad heart! When last I left this tent, I left thee full Of healthy life; returning now, I find Only thy lifeless corpse, thou Prince of men! So sorrow still, on sorrow heaped, I bear. The husband of my youth, to whom my sire And honoured mother gave me, I beheld Slain with the sword before the city walls: Three brothers, whom with me one mother bore, My dearly loved ones, all were doomed to death: Nor wouldst thou, when Achilles swift of foot My husband slew, and royal Mynês’ town In ruin laid, allow my tears to flow; But thou wouldst make me (such was still thy speech) The wedded wife of Pêleus’ godlike son: Thou wouldst to Phthia bear me in thy ship, And there, thyself, amid the Myrmidons, Wouldst give my marriage feast; then, unconsoled, I weep thy death, my ever-gentle friend!” Weeping, she spoke; the women joined her wail: Patroclus’ death the pretext for their tears, But each in secret wept her private griefs."