On a soft couch and, while the cups go by,Pledge my good health, like thee, in Thracian wine.I speak as a free man. With thee and thineHector is wroth, and tells thee to thy face.RHESUS.Thy way is mine, friend. Straight I run my raceIn word and deed, and bear no double tongue.I tell thee, more than thine my heart was wrung,Yea, angered past all durance, thus to stayBack from thy battles. ’Twas a folk that layHard on my borders, Scythians of the north;Just when my host for Troy had started forth,They fell upon our homes. I had reached the coastOf the Friendless Sea and purposed to have crossedMy Thracians there. We turned; and all that plainIs trampled in a mire of Scythian slainPloughed by our spears, and blood of Thrace withalNot stinted. This it was that drowned thy callFor help and held me back from Ilion’s need.I broke their power; the princes of their breedI took to hostage, made their elders swear