2023 NFL Futures: Breaking down and betting on the Chicago Bears win total

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Chicago Tribune

Now storms the victor at the Trojan wall; Surveys the towers, and meditates their fall. But Jove descending shook the Idaean hills, And down their summits pour’d a hundred rills: The unkindled lightning in his hand he took, And thus the many-coloured maid bespoke:

—Pedasus, a town near Pylos.

“The boon of sleep.”—Milton

“Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he? For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue’s sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain. O grant me, gods, ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father’s aid, no mother’s tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire! His fate compassion in the victor bred; Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, And laid him decent on the funeral pile; Then raised a mountain where his bones were burn’d, The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d, Jove’s sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow A barren shade, and in his honour grow.