Thy body I found not, but I addressed
Thrice farewell, consigning thy soul to rest.”
“No pious kindness,” answered Priam’s son,
“Friendship could require, hast thou left undone.
To Fate, and the Greek Murderess I owe
Horrors I bore on earth, my shame below;
She made my flesh my tomb, epitaph writ
Thereon, and on my ghost has graven it!
Thou knowest—how forget?—the lying joy
Of the last, the funeral night of Troy.