Ay, your intent is friendly; but I know not, the thought of the past life irks me—and each of you too, ifI mistake not. And if you confess it not, the worse for you, smothering your pain;

Not the worse, Achilles; the better; for we see that speech is unavailing. Be silent, bear, endure—that is our resolve, lest such longings bring mockery on us, as on you.