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313—339] misery, feeding the plague that is never sated with my flesh.

Thus have the Atreidae and the proud Odysseus dealt with me, my son: may the Olympian gods some day give them the like sufferings, in requital for mine!

. Methinks I too pity thee, son of Poeas, in like measure with thy former visitors.

. And I am myself a witness to thy words,—I know that they are true; for I have felt the villainy of the Atreidae and the proud Odysseus.

. What, hast thou, too, a grief against the accursed sons of Atreus,—a cause to resent ill-usage?

. Oh that it might be mine one day to wreak my hatred with my hand, that so Mycenae might learn, and Sparta, that Scyros also is a mother of brave men!

. Well said, my son! Now wherefore hast thou come in this fierce wrath which thou denouncest against them?

. Son of Poeas, I will speak out—and yet 'tis hard to speak—concerning the outrage that I suffered from them at my coming. When fate decreed that Achilles should die—

. Ah me! Tell me no more, until I first know this—say'st thou that the son of Peleus is dead?

. Dead,—by no mortal hand, but by a god's; laid low, as men say, by the arrow of Phoebus.

. Well, noble alike are the slayer and the slain! I scarce know, my son, which I should do first,—inquire into thy wrong, or mourn the dead.

. Methinks thine own sorrows, unhappy man, are