Classic Poem

Nor lingered Paris in the lofty house,
But armed himself and all in varied brass
Rushed through the city, glorying in his speed:
As when a horse at manger breaks his band
And riotously rushing down the plain—
Wont in the running river to wash himself
And riot, rears his head and all his mane
Flies back behind him glorying in himself
And galloping to the meadows of the mares—
So ran the son of Priam from the height
Of Ilion, Paris, sunlike all in arms