That searcheth for Achilles: of all the Greeks
Whom most I dread, for his own endless wiles,
And for Athena’s aid. Him when I saw,
Lest I should be too late, I hither sped
To warn my son, and here shall meet him soon,—
Tho’ yet he hath not come,—for on these lawns
The damsels of the court are wont to play,
And he with them. Hark! see! even now. Nay, nay.
Alas! who cometh thus? Ah, by that gait
Crouching along, it is my persecutor,