Conquered like Agamemnon, fought like Ajax?
What is thy prowess, what thy skill but this,
That thou art son of Thetis? Disobey not,
Nor question now my bidding. Must I kneel,
Embrace thy knees, or melt before thy face
In supplicating tears? O if thy birth
Did cost the tenderest tears that god e’er shed,
Make not those bitter drops to have flowed in vain.
Whate’er fate portion thee my joy is this—
That thou dost love me. Dost thou cease to love,