But though he used me so, I ne’er will grudge
For his proud scorn to yield him thus much honour,
That, save Achilles’ self, I have not seen
So noble an Argive on the fields of Troy.
Then ’twere not just in thee to slight him now;
Nor would thy treatment wound him, but confound
The laws of Heaven. No hatred should have scope
To offend the noble spirits of the dead.
Ag. Wilt thou thus fight against me on his side?
Od. Yea, though I hated him, while hate was comely.
Ag. Why, thou shouldst trample him the more, being dead.
Od. Rejoice not, King, in feats that soil thy fame!
Ag. ’Tis hard for power to observe each pious rule.
Od. Not hard to grace the good words of a friend.
Ag. The ‘noble spirit’ should hearken to command.
Od. No more! ’Tis conquest to be ruled by love.
Ag. Remember what he was thou gracest so.
Od. A noisome enemy; but his life was great.
Ag. And wilt thou honour such a pestilent corse?
Od. Hatred gives way to magnanimity.
Ag. With addle-pated fools.
Od. {{em|8}Full many are found
Friends for an hour, yet bitter in the end.
Ag. And wouldst thou have us gentle to such friends?
Od. I would not praise ungentleness in aught.
Ag. We shall be known for weaklings through thy counsel.
Od. Not so, but righteous in all Grecian eyes.
Ag. Thou bidst me then let bury this dead man?
Od. I urge thee to the course myself shall follow.
Ag. Ay, every man for his own line! That holds.
Od. Why not for my own line? What else were natural?
Ag. ’Twill be thy doing then, ne’er owned by me.
Od. Own it or not, the kindness is the same.
Ag. Well, for thy sake I’d grant a greater boon;
Then why not this? However, rest assured
That in the grave or out of it, Aias still
Shall have my hatred. Do thou what thou wilt. {{float right|[Exit
