You captains whose allotted task it is to fire this town of Priam, to you I speak. No longer keep the fire-brand idle in your hands, but launch the flame, that when we have destroyed the city of Ilium we may set forth in gladness on our homeward voyage from Troy.
And you, you sons of Troy, to let my orders take at once a double form—start for the Achaean ships for your departure from the land, as soon as the leaders of the army blow loud and clear upon the trumpet. And you, unhappy grey-haired lady,
follow; for here come servants from Odysseus to fetch you, for to him you are assigned by lot to be a slave far from your country.
Ah, woe is me! This surely is the last, the utmost limit, of all my sorrows; I go forth from my land; my city is ablaze with flame.
Yet, you aged foot, make one painful struggle to haste, that I may say a farewell to this wretched town. O Troy, that before had such a grand career among barbarian towns, soon will you be bereft of that splendid name. They are burning you, and leading us even now from our land
to slavery. O gods! Yet why do I call on the gods? They did not hearken ever before to our call. Come, let us rush into the flames, for to die with my country in its blazing ruin would be a noble death for me.
Your sorrows drive you frantic, poor lady.
Go, lead her away, make no delay, for you must deliver her into the hand of Odysseus, conveying to him his prize.
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