For from the wretched, death is first to flee.
Hecuba [reviving]: Still dost thou live, Achilles, for our bane?955
Dost still prolong the bitter strife? O Paris,
Thine arrow should have dealt a deadlier wound.
For see, the very ashes and the tomb
Of that insatiate chieftain still do thirst
For Trojan blood. But lately did a throng
Of happy children press me round; and I,
With fond endearment and the sweet caress
That mother love would shower upon them all,