Howbeit an easier anguish even to meFalls than to Thetis in her azure sea;For her son too shall die; and sorrowing,First on the hills our band for thee shall sing,Then for Achilles by the weeping wave.Pallas could murder thee, but shall not saveThy foe; too swift Apollo’s bolt shall fly.O fleshly loves of sad mortality,O bitter motherhood of these that die,She that hath wisdom will endure her doom,