Lord, not without a shudder
I touch this diadem, and not till now
Has hand of mine been closed on this sword’s hilt
That all the seed of Herakles once brandished;
But these new baubles I can see unblenching
Like any other such as blinks and glances
And is your own for paying of the price.
Not on Hephaestus do I need to think,
At sight of these, who for divine Achilles
His weapons smithied,—ay, and in the fire