Briseis

"However much Briseis towards Achilles Turned her white buttocks, fairer than twin lilies, He found below the smooth Patroclus waist Enjoyment more congenial to his taste."

"Captive Briseis in a foraign Tongue More by her blots, than words, sets forth her wrong And yet these blots, which by my tears are made, Above all words, or writing should perswade. Subjects (I know) must not their Lords accuse; Yet prayers and tears we lawfully may use."

"However much Briseis lay with her bottom turned towards him, the son of Aeacus found his beardless friend more congenial to his tastes."

"He said, and soon, obeying his Intent, Patroclus brought Briseis from her Tent; Then to th’ intrusted Messengers resign’d: She wept, and often cast her Eyes behind;"

"Then furl your Sails, once more your Anchors cast; Leave not your Country, nor your Honour blast. But go, or stay; with you I ought to move, Made yours by Right of War, and Right of Love."

"Briseis, fair as golden Venus, saw Patroclus lying, pierced with mortal wounds, Within the tent; and with a bitter cry, She flung her down upon the corpse, and tore Her breast, her delicate neck, and beauteous cheeks; And, weeping, thus the lovely woman wailed: “Patroclus, dearly loved of this sad heart! When last I left this tent, I left thee full Of healthy life; returning now, I find Only thy lifeless corpse, thou Prince of men! So sorrow still, on sorrow heaped, I bear. The husband of my youth, to whom my sire And honoured mother gave me, I beheld Slain with the sword before the city walls: Three brothers, whom with me one mother bore, My dearly loved ones, all were doomed to death: Nor wouldst thou, when Achilles swift of foot My husband slew, and royal Mynês’ town In ruin laid, allow my tears to flow; But thou wouldst make me (such was still thy speech) The wedded wife of Pêleus’ godlike son: Thou wouldst to Phthia bear me in thy ship, And there, thyself, amid the Myrmidons, Wouldst give my marriage feast; then, unconsoled, I weep thy death, my ever-gentle friend!” Weeping, she spoke; the women joined her wail: Patroclus’ death the pretext for their tears, But each in secret wept her private griefs."

"Shall I release the Prize I gain’d by Right, In taken Towns, and many a bloody Fight, While thou detain’st Briseis in thy Bands, By priestly glossing on the God’s Commands? Resolve on this, (a short Alternative) Quit mine, or, in Exchange, another give; Else I, assure thy Soul, by Sov’reign Right Will seize thy Captive in thy own Despight."