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      Thou that art Jove's respected friend,

      To what I speak be sure attend,

      And in a twinkling shalt thou know,

      Why Phœbus smokes the Grecians so,

      But promise, should the chief attack me,

      That thou my bully-rock wilt back me;

      Because I know things must come out,

      Will gripe him to the very gut.

      These monarchs are so proud and haughty,

      Subjects can't tell them when they're faulty,

      Because, though now their fury drops,

      Somehow or other out it pops.

      And this remember whilst you live,

      When kings can't punish, they'll forgive.

      Achilles thus: Old cock, speak out,

      Speak freely without fear or doubt.

      Smite my old pot-lid! but, so long

      As I draw breath amidst this throng.

      The bloodiest cur in all the crew

      Sha'n't dare so much as bark at you:

      Not e'en the chief, so grum and tall,

      Who sits two steps above us all.

      These words the doubtful conj'ror cheer,

      Who then proceeded without fear:

      To th' gods you never play'd the thief,

      But paid them well with tripe or beef;

      But 'tis our chief provok'd Apollo

      With this curst plague our camp to follow

      Because his priest was vilely us'd,

      His daughter kiss'd, himself abus'd.

      The curate's pray's caus'd these disorders:

      Gods fight for men in holy orders.

      Nor will he from his purpose flinch,

      Nor will his godship budge one inch,

      But without mercy, great and small,

      Will never cease to sweat us all,

      If Agamemnon doth not send her,

      With cooks and statesmen to attend her.

      Then let's in haste the girl restore

      Without a ransom; and, what's more,

      Let's rams, and goats, and oxen give,

      That priests and gods may let us live.

      Ready to burst with vengeful ire,

      That made his bloodshot eyes strike fire,

      Atrides, with an angry scowl,

      Replies, The devil fetch your soul!

      I've a great mind, you lousy wizard,

      To lay my fist across your mazzard.

      Son of an ugly squinting bitch,

      Pray who the pox made you a witch?

      I don't believe, you mongrel dog,

      You ken a handsaw from a hog;

      Nor know, although you thus dare flounce,

      How many f – s will make an ounce;

      And yet, an imp, can always see

      Some mischief cooking up for me,

      And think, because you are a priest,

      You safely may with captains jest.

      But I forewarn thee, shun the stroke,

      Nor dare my mighty rage provoke.

      A pretty fellow thou! to teach

      Our men to murmur at thy speech,

      Tell lies as thick as you can pack 'em,

      And bring your wooden gods to back 'em

      And all because a girl I keep

      For exercise, to make me sleep.

      Besides, the wench does all things neatly,

      And handles my affairs completely.

      She hems, marks linen, and she stitches,

      And mends my doublet, hose, and breeches,

      My Clytemnestra well I love,

      But not so well as her, by Jove!

      Yet, since you say we suffer slaughter

      Because I kiss this parson's daughter,

      Then go she must; I'll let her go,

      Since the cross gods will have it so;

      Rather than Phœbus thus shall drive,

      And slay the people all alive,

      From this dear loving wench I'll part,

      The only comfort of my heart.

      But, since I must resign for Greece,

      I shall expect as good a piece:

      'Tis a great loss, and by my soul

      All Greece shall join to make me whole!

      Don't think that I, of all that fought,

      Will take a broken pate for nought.

      Achilles, starting from his breech,

      Replies, By Jove, a pretty speech!

      Think'st thou the troops will in her stead

      Send what they got with broken head;

      Or that we shall esteem you right in

      Purloining what we earn'd by fighting?

      You may with bullying face demand,

      But who the pox will understand?

      If thou for plunder look'st, my boy,

      Enough of that there is in Troy:

      Her apple-stalls we down may pull,

      And then we'll stuff thy belly full.

      The chief replies: For you, Achilles,

      I care not two-pence; but my will is

      Not to submit to be so serv'd,

      And thou lie warm whilst I am starv'd.

      Though thou in battle mak'st brave work,

      Can beat the devil, pope, and Turk,

      With Spaniards, Hollanders, and French,

      I won't for that give up my wench:

      Nor shall I, Mr. Bluff, d'ye see,

      Resign my girl to pleasure thee.

      Let something be produc'd to view,

      Which I may have of her in lieu,

      Something that's noble, great and good,

      Worthy a prince of royal blood;

      Just such another I should wish her,

      As sev'n years since was Kitty Fisher;

      Or else I will, since you provoke,

      At all your prizes have a stroke;

      Ulysses' booty will I seize,

      Or thine or Ajax', if I please.

      The man that's hurt may bawl and roar,

      And swear, but he can do no more.

      But this some other time may do,

      I must go launch a sand-barge now:

      Victuals

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