consedere chori paulumque exercita pulsu aera tacent, tenero cum solus ab agmine Achilles haec secum: Quonam timidae commenta parentis usque feres, primumque imbelli carcere perdes florem animi? non tela licet Mavortia dextra, non trepidas agitare feras? ubi campus et amnes Haemonii? quaerisne meos, Sperchie, natatus promissasque comas? an desertoris alumni nullus honos, Stygiasque procul iam raptus ad umbras dicor, et orbatus plangit mea funera Chiron? tu nunc tela manu, nostros tu dirigis arcus nutritosque mihi scandis, Patrocle, iugales? ast ego pampineis diffundere bracchia thyrsis et tenuare colus (pudet haec taedetque fateri) iam scio.
The dances subside, the beaten bronze falls mute awhile, and Achilles, solitary from the tender band, thus communes with himself: How long shall you endure the devices of your timid mother and squander the prime flower of courage in unmanly durance? May you not carry Mars weapons in your hands nor hunt affrighted beasts? Where are Haemonias plain and rivers?  Sperchius, do you miss my swims and promised tresses?  Or care you naught for your deserter foster son, and am I already talked of as snatched away to the shades of Styx, and does Chiron lament my death bereaved? Patroclus, do you now aim my darts and my bow and mount the team that was reared for me? While I now know how to spread my arms with wands of vine and spin thread (shame and disgust to confess it!).
final_alignments\Statius_Achilleid.json