He is the cause.  Apollo for his sake
Afflicts and will afflict us, neither end
Nor intermission of his heavy scourge
Granting, ’till unredeem’d, no price required,
The black-eyed maid be to her father sent, 120
And a whole hecatomb in Chrysa bleed. 
Then, not before, the God may be appeased. 
He spake and sat; when Atreus’ son arose,
The Hero Agamemnon, throned supreme. 
Tempests of black resentment overcharged 125
His heart, and indignation fired his eyes. 
On Calchas lowering, him he first address’d. 
Prophet of mischief! from whose tongue no note
Of grateful sound to me, was ever heard;
Ill tidings are thy joy, and tidings glad 130
Thou tell’st not, or thy words come not to pass. 
And now among the Danai thy dreams
Divulging, thou pretend’st the Archer-God
For his priest’s sake, our enemy, because
I scorn’d his offer’d ransom of the maid 135
Chryseis, more desirous far to bear
Her to my home, for that she charms me more
Than Clytemnestra, my own first espoused,
With whom, in disposition, feature, form,
Accomplishments, she may be well compared. 140
Yet, being such, I will return her hence
If that she go be best.  Perish myself—­
But let the people of my charge be saved
Prepare ye, therefore, a reward for me,
And seek it instant.  It were much unmeet 145
That I alone of all the Argive host
Should want due recompense, whose former prize
Is elsewhere destined, as ye all perceive. 
To whom Achilles, matchless in the race. 
Atrides, glorious above all in rank, 150
And as intent on gain as thou art great,
Whence shall the Grecians give a prize to thee? 
The general stock is poor; the spoil of towns
Which we have taken, hath already passed
In distribution, and it were unjust 155
To gather it from all the Greeks again. 
But send thou back this Virgin to her God,
And when Jove’s favor shall have given us Troy,
A threefold, fourfold share shall then be thine. 
To whom the Sovereign of the host replied. 160
Godlike Achilles, valiant as thou art,
Wouldst thou be subtle too?  But me no fraud
Shall overreach, or art persuade, of thine. 
Wouldst thou, that thou be recompensed, and I
Sit meekly down, defrauded of my due? 165
And didst thou bid me yield her?  Let the bold
Achaians give me competent amends,
Such as may please me, and it shall be well. 
Else, if they give me none, I will command
Thy prize, the prize of Ajax, or the prize 170
It may be of Ulysses to my tent,
And let the loser chafe.  But this concern
Shall be adjusted at convenient time. 
Come—­launch we now into the sacred deep