How from that arm of terror shall I fly? Some demon urges! 'tis my doom to die! If ever yet soft pity touch'd thy mind, Ah! think not me too much of Hector's kind! Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath, With his, who wrought thy loved Patroclus' death." These words, attended with a shower of tears, The youth address'd to unrelenting ears: "Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam's hateful race. Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore? The great, the good Patroclus is no more! He, far thy better, was foredoom'd to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? Seest thou not me, whom nature's gifts adorn, Sprung from a hero, from a goddess born? The day shall come (which nothing can avert) When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart, By night, or day, by force, or by design, Impending death and certain fate are mine! Die the