Achilles swore he felt by no means hurt,
At putting on great Agamemnon’s shirt;
He priz’d the honour, never grudg’d the trouble,
And only wish’d the profit had been double.
Another by Lord Winchelsea.
With formal mien, and visage most forlorn,
The courtly hero spoke his silent scorn.
Another by Lord Sydney.
The chief, unknowing how he shou’d begin, }
First darts around, the’ opposing ranks to thin, }
The lightnings of his eye, and terrors of his chin. }
Another by Mr. Brandling.
Achilles rose, and said, without the least offence,
The dog has neither courage, worth, nor sense.
Another by Lord Belgrave.
Huic, ceu Pititius ipse, cito respondit Achilles,
Namque (ut ego) Græceque seirens erat, & pede velox.
Another by the Twelve Lords of the Bedchamber, in a passion.