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 If like a coward I skulked behind, apart from the battle. Nor would my own heart let me; my heart, which has bid me be valiant Always, and always fighting among the first of the Trojans, Busy for Priam's fame and my own, in spite of the future. For that day will come, my soul is assured of its coming, It will come, when sacred Troy shall go to destruction, Troy, and warlike Priam too, and the people of Priam. And yet not that grief, which then will be, of the Trojans, Moves me so much—not Hecuba's grief, nor Priam my father's, Nor my brethren's, many and brave, who then will be lying In the bloody dust, beneath the feet of their foemen— As thy grief, when, in tears, some brazen-coated Achaian Shall transport thee away, and the day of thy freedom be ended. Then, perhaps, thou shalt work at the loom of another, in Argos, Or bear pails to the well of Messeïs, or Hypereia, Sorely against thy will, by strong Necessity's order. And some man may say, as he looks and sees thy tears falling: ''See, the wife of Hector, that great pre-eminent captain Of the horsemen of Troy, in the day they fought for their city''. So some man will say; and then thy grief will redouble At thy want of a man like me, to save thee from bondage. But let me be dead, and the earth be mounded above me, Ere I hear thy cries, and thy captivity told of.