Icy pallor rivets the Nereid. The lad was there, much sweat and dust made him bigger, and yet amid weapons and hurried labours he was still sweet to look upon. A bright glow swims in his snow-white face and his hair shines fairer than tawny gold. Nor yet is his first youth changing with new down, the lights in his eyes are tranquil and much of his mother is in his face: like Apollo the hunter when he returns from Lycia and quits his fierce quiver for the quill. By chance too he comes rejoicing (ah how much does happiness add to beauty!): he had struck with steel a lioness newly whelped under Pholoë’s crag and left her in her empty cavern, bringing home the cubs and provoking their claws. But when his mother appears on the trusty threshold, he throws them aside, picks her up and encircles her with greedy elbows, already powerful in his embrace and of height to match her. Patroclus follows, linked even then by a great love. He strains to rival such mighty deeds, equal in youthful zeal and manners but far behind in strength; yet he too was to see Pergamus, alike doomed.

Forthwith in a swift leap he approaches the nearest stream and freshens his steaming cheeks and hair in its water, like Castor entering the shallows of Eurotas with panting steed and furbishing the weary ray of his star. The ancient wonders at him, spruces him up, stroking now his chest, now his strong shoulders. Her joys torture the mother. Then Chiron1 begs her to taste victuals and Bacchus’ gift, weaving various delights for her amazement. At last he draws out his lyre, moving the care-comforting strings, and after making light trial of them with his thumb hands them to the boy. Willingly he sings mighty seeds of glory: how many commands of his proud stepdame Amphitryon’s son accomplished, with what a glove Pollux crushed cruel Bebryx, with how strong a grip the son of Aegeus encircled and broke the limbs of Minos’ bull, and finally his mother’s marriage bed and Pelion weighed down by the High Ones. Here Thetis’ anxious countenance yielded in a smile. Night draws to slumber. The huge Centaur collapses on stone and Achilles fondly twines himself about his shoulders, though his faithful mother is there, preferring the familiar bosom.