Or word I have offended, let me bleed!Bury me here alive! I ask no pardon.THRACIAN.HECTOR is standing over him ready to strike when the CHARIOTEER speaks.Why threaten them? Art thou a Greek to blindMy barbarous wit so nimbly, in a windOf words? This work was thine. And no man’s headIs asked by us, the wounded and the dead,Save thine. It needs more play, and better feigned,To hide from me that thou hast slain thy friendBy craft, to steal his horses.—That is whyHe stabs his friends. He prays them earnestly,Prays them to come; they came and they are dead.A cleaner man was Paris, when he fledWith his host’s wife. He was no murderer.Profess not thou that any Greek was thereTo fall on us. What Greek could pass the screenOf Trojan posts in front of us, unseen?Thyself was stationed there, and all thy men.What man of yours was slain or wounded whenYour Greek spies came? Not one; ’tis we, behind,Are wounded, and some worse than wounded, blind