Classic Poem

Thus (chac't like Hinds) the Ilians tooke time to drinke and eate
And to refresh them, getting off the mingl'd dust and sweate,
And good strong rampires on in stead. The Greeks then cast their shields
Aloft their shoulders; and now Fate their neare invasion yeelds
Of those tough wals, her deadly hand compelling Hector's stay
Before Troy at the Scæan ports. Achilles still made way
At Phœbus, who his bright head turn'd, and askt: ‘Why, Peleus' sonne,
Pursu'st thou (being a man) a god? Thy rage hath never done.
Acknowledge not thine eyes my state? Esteemes thy mind no more
Thy honor in the chase of Troy, but puts my chace before
Their utter conquest? They are all now housde in Ilion,
While thou hunt'st me. What wishest thou? My bloud will never runne
On thy proud javelin.’ ‘It is thou,’ repli'd Æacides,
‘That putst dishonor thus on me, thou worst of deities.
Thou turndst me from the walls, whose ports had never entertaind
Numbers now enter'd, over whom thy saving hand hath raign'd
And robd my honor. And all is, since all thy actions stand
Past feare of reckoning. But held I the measure in my hand,
It should affoord thee deare-bought scapes.’ Thus with elated spirits
(Steed-like, that at Olympus' games weares garlands for his merits
And rattles home his chariot, extending all his pride)
Achilles so parts with the god. When aged Priam spide
The great Greek come, sphear'd round with beames, and show'ng as if the star
Surnam'd Orion's hound, that springs in Autumne and sends farre
His radiance through a world of starres, of all whose beames his owne
Cast greatest splendor, the midnight that renders them most showne
Then being their foile, and on their points cure-passing Fevers then
Come shaking downe into the joynts of miserable men—
As this were falne to earth, and shot along the field his raies,
Now towards Priam (when he saw in great Æacides)
Out flew his tender voice in shriekes, and with raisde hands he smit
His reverend head, then up to heaven he cast them, shewing it
What plagues it sent him, downe againe then threw them to his sonne,
To make him shun them. He now stood without steepe Ilion,
Thirsting the combat, and to him thus miserably cride
The kind old king: ‘O Hector! flie this man, this homicide,
That strait will stroy thee. Hee's too strong, and would to heaven he were
As strong in heaven's love as in mine! Vultures and dogs should teare
His prostrate carkasse, all my woes quencht with his bloudy spirits.
He has robd me of many sonnes and worthy, and their merits
Sold to farre Ilands. Two of them (aye me) I misse but now;
They are not enterd, nor stay here. Laothoe, O twas thou,
O Queene of women, from whose wombe they breath'd. O did the tents
Detaine them onely, brasse and gold would purchase safe events
To their sad durance: tis within. Old Altes (yong in fame)
Gave plentie for his daughter's dowre. But if they fed the flame
Of this man's furie, woe is me, woe to my wretched Queene.
But in our state's woe their two deaths will nought at all be seene,
So thy life quit them. Take the towne; retire, deare sonne, and save
Troy's husbands and her wives, nor give thine owne life to the grave
For this man's glorie. Pitie me—me, wretch, so long alive,
Whom in the doore of Age Jove keepes, that so he may deprive
My being in Fortune's utmost curse, to see the blackest thred
Of this life's miseries—my sonnes slaine, my daughters ravished,
Their resting chambers sackt, their babes torne from them, on their knees
Pleading for mercie, themselves dragd to Grecian slaveries
(And all this drawne through my red eyes.) Then last of all kneele I,
Alone, all helplesse, at my gates before my enemie,
That (ruthlesse) gives me to my dogs—all the deformitie
Of age discover'd. And all this thy death (sought wilfully)
Will poure on me. A faire yong man at all parts it beseemes
(Being bravely slaine) to lie all gasht and weare the worst extremes
Of warre's most crueltie; no wound, of whatsoever ruth,
But is his ornament. But I, a man so farre from youth,
White head, white-bearded, wrinkl'd, pin'd, all shames must shew the eye.
Live; prevent this then, this most shame of all man's miserie.’
Thus wept the old king, and tore off his white haire; yet all these
Retir'd not Hector. Hecuba then fell upon her knees,
Stript nak't her bosome, shew'd her breasts and bad him reverence them
And pitie her—if ever she had quieted his exclaime,
He would ceasse hers and take the towne, not tempting the rude field
When all had left it: ‘Thinke,’ said she, ‘I gave thee life to yeeld
My life recomfort; thy rich wife shall have no rites of thee,
Nor do thee rites: our teares shall pay thy corse no obsequie,
Being ravisht from us, Grecian dogs nourisht with what I nurst.’
Thus wept both these, and to his ruth proposde the utmost worst
Of what could chance them; yet he staid. And now drew deadly neare
Mightie Achilles; yet he still kept deadly station there.
Looke how a Dragon, when she sees a traveller bent upon
Her breeding den, her bosome fed with fell contagion,
Gathers her forces, sits him firme, and at his nearest pace
Wraps all her Caverne in her folds, and thrusts a horrid face
Out at his entrie: Hector so, with unextinguisht spirit,
Stood great Achilles, stird no foote, but at the prominent turret
Bent to his bright shield, and resolv'd to beare falne heaven on it.
Yet all this resolute abode did not so truly fit
His free election, but he felt a much more galling spurre
To the performance with conceit of what he should incurre
Entring, like others, for this cause; to which, he thus gave way:
‘O me, if I shall take the towne, Polydamas will lay
This flight and all this death on me, who counseld me to leade
My powres to Troy this last blacke night, when so I saw make head
Incenst Achilles. I yet staid, though (past all doubt) that course
Had much more profited than mine—which (being by so much worse
As comes to all our flight and death) my folly now I feare
Hath bred this scandall. All our towne now burnes my ominous eare
With whispering: Hector's selfe conceit hath cast away his host.
And (this true) this extremitie that I relie on most
Is best for me; stay and retire with this man's life, or die
Here for our citie with renowme, since all else fled but I.
And yet one way cuts both these wayes. What if I hang my shield,
My helme and lance here on these wals, and meete in humble field
Renowm'd Achilles, offering him Helen and all the wealth
What ever in his hollow keeles bore Alexander's stealth
For both th' Atrides? For the rest, what ever is possest
In all this citie, knowne or hid, by oath shall be confest
Of all our citizens, of which one halfe the Greeks shall have,
One halfe themselves. But why, lov'd soule, would these suggestions save
Thy state still in me? I'le not sue, nor would he grant, but I
(Mine armes cast off) should be assur'd a woman's death to die.
To men of oke and rocke, no words; virgins and youths talke thus—
Virgins and youths that love and wooe. There's other warre with us.
What blowes and conflicts urge, we crie hates and defiances,
And with the garlands these trees beare trie which hand Jove will blesse.’
These thoughts emploid his stay; and now Achilles comes; now neare
His Mars-like presence terribly came brandishing his speare.
His right arme shooke it; his bright armes like day came glittering on,
Like fire-light, or the light of heaven shot from the rising Sun.
This sight outwrought discourse; cold Feare shooke Hector from his stand.
No more stay now; all ports were left; he fled in feare the hand
Of that Feare-master, who, hauk-like, aire's swiftest passenger,
That holds a timorous Dove in chace, and with command doth beare
His fierie onset; the Dove hasts; the Hauke comes whizzing on;
This way and that he turnes and winds and cuffes the Pigeon,
And till he trusse it his great spirit layes hote charge on his wing:
So urg'd Achilles Hector's flight; so still Feare's point did sting
His troubl'd spirit. His knees wrought hard; along the wall he flew
In that faire chariot way that runnes beneath the towre of view
And Troy's wilde fig-tree, till they reacht where those two mother springs
Of deepe Scamander pour'd abroad their silver murmurings—
One warme and casts out fumes as fire, the other, cold as snow
Or haile dissolv'd. And when the Sunne made ardent sommer glow,
There water's concrete cristall shin'd, neare which were cisternes made
All pav'd and cleare, where Troyan wives and their faire daughters had
Landrie for their fine linnen weeds, in times of cleanly Peace
Before the Grecians brought their siege. These Captaines noted these,
One flying, th' other in pursuite; a strong man flew before,
A stronger follow'd him by farre, and close up to him bore.
Both did their best, for neither now ranne for a sacrifice,
Or for the sacrificer's hide (our runners' usuall prise).
These ranne for tame-horse Hector's soule. And as two running Steeds
Backt in some set race for a game, that tries their swiftest speeds
(A tripod or a woman given for some man's funerals):
Such speed made these men, and on foote ranne thrice about the wals.
The gods beheld them, all much mov'd; and Jove said: ‘O ill sight!
A man I love much I see forc't in most unworthy flight
About great Ilion. My heart grieves; he paid so many vowes
With thighes of sacrificed beeves, both on the loftie browes
Of Ida and in Ilion's height. Consult we; shall we free
His life from death, or give it now t' Achilles' victorie?’
Minerva answer'd: ‘Alter Fate? One long since markt for death
Now take from death? Do thou; but know he still shall runne beneath
Our other censures.’ ‘Be it then,’ replide the Thunderer,
‘My lov'd Tritonia, at thy will; in this I will preferre
Thy free intention; worke it all.’ Then stoopt she from the skie
To this great combat. Peleus' sonne pursu'd incessantly
Still-flying Hector. As a Hound that, having rouz'd a Hart,
Although he tappish ne're so oft and every shrubbie part
Attempts for strength and trembles in, the Hound doth still pursue
So close that not a foote he failes, but hunts it still at view:
So plied Achilles Hector's steps. As oft as he assail'd
The Dardan ports and towres for strength (to fetch from thence some aid
With winged shafts), so oft forc't he amends of pace, and stept
Twixt him and all his hopes, and still upon the field he kept
His utmost turnings to the towne. And yet, as in a dreame,
One thinkes he gives another chace, when such a fain'd extreame
Possesseth both that he in chace the chacer cannot flie,
Nor can the chacer get to hand his flying enemie:
So nor Achilles' chace could reach the flight of Hector's pace,
Nor Hector's flight enlarge it selfe of swift Achilles' chace.
But how chanc't this? How, all this time, could Hector beare the knees
Of fierce Achilles with his owne, and keepe off Destinies,
If Phœbus (for his last and best) through all that course had fail'd
To adde his succours to his nerves, and (as his foe assail'd)
Neare and within him fed his scape? Achilles yet well knew
His knees would fetch him, and gave signes to some friends (making shew
Of shooting at him) to forbeare, lest they detracted so
From his full glorie in first wounds, and in the overthrow
Make his hand last. But when they reacht the fourth time the two founts,
Then Jove his golden skoles weigh'd up, and tooke the last accounts
Of Fate for Hector, putting in for him and Peleus' sonne
Two fates of bitter death—of which high heaven receiv'd the one,
The other hell: so low declin'd the light of Hector's life.
Then Phœbus left him, when warre's Queene came to resolve the strife
In th' other's knowledge: ‘Now,’ said she, ‘Jove-lov'd Æacides,
I hope at last to make Renowme performe a brave accesse
To all the Grecians; we shall now lay low this champion's height,
Though never so insatiate was his great heart of fight.
Nor must he scape our pursuite still, though at the feete of Jove
Apollo bowes into a sphere, soliciting more love
To his most favour'd. Breath thee then, stand firme; my selfe will hast
And hearten Hector to change blowes.’ She went, and he stood fast,
Lean'd on his lance, and much was joy'd that single strokes should trie
This fadging conflict. Then came close the changed deitie
To Hector, like Deiphobus in shape and voice, and said:
‘O brother, thou art too much urg'd to be thus combatted
About our owne wals; let us stand and force to a retreat
Th' insulting Chaser.’ Hector joy'd at this so kind deceit,
And said: ‘O good Deiphobus, thy love was most before
(Of all my brothers) deare to me; but now exceeding more
It costs me honor, that, thus urg'd, thou com'st to part the charge
Of my last fortunes; other friends keepe towne and leave at large
My rackt endevours.’ She replide: ‘Good brother, tis most true;
One after other, King and Queene and all our friends did sue
(Even on their knees) to stay me there, such tremblings shake them all
With this man's terror: but my mind so griev'd to see our wall
Girt with thy chases that to death I long'd to urge thy stay.
Come, fight we, thirstie of his bloud; no more let's feare to lay
Cost on our lances, but approve if, bloudied with our spoiles,
He can beare glorie to their fleete, or shut up all their toiles
In his one sufferance on thy lance.’ With this deceit, she led,
And (both come neare) thus Hector spake: ‘Thrice I have compassed
This great towne, Peleus' sonne, in flight, with aversation
That out of Fate put off my steps; but now all flight is flowne,
The short course set up—death or life. Our resolutions yet
Must shun all rudenesse, and the gods before our valour set
For use of victorie; and, they being worthiest witnesses
Of all vowes, since they keepe vowes best, before their deities
Let vowes of fit respect passe both, when Conquest hath bestow'd
Her wreath on either. Here I vow no furie shall be show'd
That is not manly on thy corse, but, having spoil'd thy armes,
Resigne thy person—which sweare thou.’ These faire and temperate termes
Farre fled Achilles; his browes bent, and out flew this reply:
‘Hector, thou onely pestilence in all mortalitie
To my sere spirits, never set the point twixt thee and me
Any conditions; but as farre as men and Lions flie
All termes of covenant, lambes and wolves, in so farre opposite state
(Impossible for love t' attone) stand we, till our soules satiate
The god of souldiers. Do not dreame that our disjunction can
Endure condition. Therefore now all worth that fits a man
Call to thee, all particular parts that fit a souldier;
And they all this include (besides the skill and spirit of warre)
Hunger for slaughter, and a hate that eates thy heart to eate
Thy foe's heart. This stirs, this supplies in death the killing heate;
And all this needst thou. No more flight. Pallas Athenia
Will quickly cast thee to my lance. Now, now together draw
All griefes for vengeance, both in me and all my friends late dead
That bled thee, raging with thy lance.’ This said, he brandished
His long lance, and away it sung; which Hector, giving view,
Stoupt low; stood firme (foreseeing it best) and quite it overflew,
Fastening on earth. Athenia drew it and gave her friend,
Unseene of Hector. Hector then thus spake: ‘Thou want'st thy end,
God-like Achilles; now I see thou hast not learn'd my fate
Of Jove at all, as thy high words would bravely intimate.
Much tongue affects thee; cunning words well serve thee to prepare
Thy blowes with threats, that mine might faint with want of spirit to dare.
But my backe never turnes with breath; it was not borne to beare
Burthens of wounds; strike home before; drive at my breast thy speare
As mine at thine shall, and trie then if heavens will favor thee
With scape of my lance. O would Jove would take it after me,
And make thy bosome take it all, an easie end would crowne
Our difficult warres were thy soule fled, thou most bane of our towne.’
Thus flew his dart, toucht at the midst of his vast shield, and flew
A huge way from it; but his heart wrath enterd with the view
Of that hard scape, and heavie thoughts strooke through him when he spide
His brother vanisht, and no lance beside left. Out he cride:
‘Deiphobus! another lance.’ Lance nor Deiphobus
Stood neare his call. And then his mind saw all things ominous,
And thus suggested: ‘Woe is me! The gods have cald, and I
Must meete Death here. Deiphobus I well hop't had bene by
With his white shield; but our strong wals shield him, and this deceit
Flowes from Minerva. Now, O now, ill death comes; no more flight,
No more recoverie. O Jove, this hath bene otherwise;
Thy bright sonne and thy selfe have set the Greeks a greater prise
Of Hector's bloud than now, of which (even jealous) you had care.
But Fate now conquers; I am hers. And yet not she shall share
In my renowme; that life is left to every noble spirit,
And that some great deed shall beget that all lives shall inherit.’
Thus forth his sword flew, sharpe and broad, and bore a deadly weight,
With which he rusht in. And looke how an Eagle from her height
Stoopes to the rapture of a Lambe, or cuffes a timorous Hare:
So fell in Hector, and at him Achilles; his mind's fare
Was fierce and mightie; his shield cast a Sun-like radiance,
Helme nodded, and his foure plumes shooke; and, when he raisde his lance,
Up Hesperus rose mongst th' evening starres. His bright and sparkling eies
Lookt through the body of his foe, and sought through all that prise
The next way to his thirsted life. Of all wayes onely one
Appear'd to him; and that was where th' unequall winding bone
That joynes the shoulders and the necke had place, and where there lay
The speeding way to death; and there his quicke eye could display
The place it sought, even through those armes his friend Patroclus wore,
When Hector slue him. There he aim'd, and there his javelin tore
Sterne passage quite through Hector's necke, yet mist it so his throte,
It gave him powre to change some words; but downe to earth it got
His fainting bodie. Then triumpht divine Æacides:
‘Hector,’ said he, ‘thy heart supposde that in my friend's deceasse
Thy life was safe, my absent arme not car'd for. Foole! he left
One at the fleete that better'd him, and he it is that reft
Thy strong knees thus. And now the dogs and fowles in foulest use
Shall teare thee up, thy corse exposde to all the Greeks' abuse.’
He, fainting, said: ‘Let me implore, even by thy knees and soule
And thy great parents; do not see a crueltie so foule
Inflicted on me. Brasse and gold receive at any rate
And quit my person, that the Peeres and Ladies of our state
May tombe it, and to sacred fire turne thy prophane decrees.’
‘Dog,’ he replied, ‘urge not my ruth by parents, soule, nor knees.
I would to God that any rage would let me eate thee raw,
Slic't into peeces, so beyond the right of any law
I tast thy merits. And beleeve it flies the force of man
To rescue thy head from the dogs. Give all the gold they can,
If ten or twentie times so much as friends would rate thy price
Were tenderd here, with vowes of more, to buy the cruelties
I here have vow'd, and, after that, thy father with his gold
Would free thy selfe—all that should faile to let thy mother hold
Solemnities of death with thee and do thee such a grace
To mourne thy whole corse on a bed—which peecemeale I'le deface
With fowles and dogs.’ He (dying) said: ‘I (knowing thee well) foresaw
Thy now tried tyrannie, nor hop't for any other law,
Of nature, or of nations: and that feare forc't much more
Than death my flight, which never toucht at Hector's foote before.
A soule of iron informes thee. Marke, what vengeance th' equall fates
Will give me of thee for this rage, when in the Scæan gates
Phœbus and Paris meete with thee.’ Thus death's hand closde his eyes,
His soule flying his faire lims to hell, mourning his destinies
To part so with his youth and strength. Thus dead, thus Thetis' sonne
His prophecie answer'd: ‘Die thou now; when my short thred is spunne,
I'le beare it as the will of Jove.’ This said, his brazen speare
He drew and stucke by: then his armes (that all embrewed were)
He spoil'd his shoulders off. Then all the Greeks ran in to him
To see his person, and admir'd his terror-stirring lim.
Yet none stood by that gave no wound to his so goodly forme,
When each to other said: ‘O Jove, he is not in the storme
He came to fleete in with his fire; he handles now more soft.’
‘O friends,’ said sterne Æacides, ‘now that the gods have brought
This man thus downe, I'le freely say he brought more bane to Greece
Than all his aiders. Trie we then (thus arm'd at every peece,
And girding all Troy with our host) if now their hearts will leave
Their citie cleare, her cleare stay slaine, and all their lives receave,
Or hold yet, Hector being no more. But why use I a word
Of any act but what concernes my friend? Dead, undeplor'd,
Unsepulcherd, he lies at fleete, unthought on; never houre
Shall make his dead state while the quicke enjoyes me and this powre
To move these movers. Though in hell men say that such as die
Oblivion seiseth, yet in hell in me shall Memorie
Hold all her formes still of my friend. Now, youths of Greece, to fleete
Beare we this body, Pæans sing, and all our navie greete
With endlesse honor. We have slaine Hector, the period
Of all Troy's glorie, to whose worth all vow'd as to a god.’
This said, a worke not worthy him he set to. Of both feete
He bor'd the nerves through from the heele to th' ankle, and then knit
Both to his chariot with a thong of whitleather, his head
Trailing the center. Up he got to chariot, where he laid
The armes repurchac't, and scourg'd on his horse, that freely flew.
A whirlewind made of startl'd dust drave with them as they drew;
With which were all his black-browne curls knotted in heapes and fil'd.
And there lay Troy's late Gracious, by Jupiter exil'd
To all disgrace, in his owne land and by his parents seene.
When (like her sonne's head) all with dust Troy's miserable Queene
Distain'd her temples, plucking off her honor'd haire, and tore
Her royall garments, shrieking out. In like kind, Priam bore
His sacred person, like a wretch that never saw good day,
Broken with outcries. About both the people prostrate lay,
Held downe with Clamor, all the towne vail'd with a cloud of teares.
Ilion with all his tops on fire and all the massacres
Left for the Greeks could put on lookes of no more overthrow
Than now fraid life. And yet the king did all their lookes outshow.
The wretched people could not beare his soveraigne wretchednesse,
Plaguing himselfe so, thrusting out and praying all the preasse
To open him the Dardan ports, that he alone might fetch
His dearest sonne in. And (all fil'd with trembling) did beseech
Each man by name, thus: ‘Loved friends, be you content; let me
(Though much ye grieve) be that poore meane to our sad remedie
Now in our wishes. I will go and pray this impious man
(Author of horrors), making proofe if age's reverence can
Excite his pitie. His owne sire is old like me, and he
That got him to our griefes perhaps may (for my likenesse) be
Meane for our ruth to him. Ahlas, you have no cause of cares
Compar'd with me—I many sonnes grac't with their freshest yeares
Have lost by him, and all their deaths in slaughter of this one
(Afflicted man) are doubl'd: this will bitterly set gone
My soule to hell. O would to heaven I could but hold him dead
In these pin'd armes: then teares on teares might fall till all were shed
In common fortune. Now amaze their naturall course doth stop
And pricks a mad veine.’ Thus he mourn'd, and with him all brake ope
Their store of sorrowes. The poore Queene amongst the women wept,
Turn'd into anguish: ‘O my sonne,’ she cried out, ‘why still kept
Patient of horrors is my life, when thine is vanished?
My dayes thou glorifiedst, my nights rung of some honour'd deed
Done by the virtues—joy to me, profite to all our care.
All made a god of thee, and thou mad'st them all that they are—
Now under fate, now dead.’ These two thus vented as they could
Their sorrowe's furnace, Hector's wife not having yet bene told
So much as of his stay without. She in her chamber close
Sate at her Loome: a peece of worke, grac't with a both sides glosse,
Strew'd curiously with varied flowres, her pleasure was; her care
To heate a Caldron for her Lord to bath him, turn'd from warre—
Of which she chiefe charge gave her maides. Poore Dame, she little knew
How much her cares lackt of his case. But now the Clamor flew
Up to her turret: then she shooke; her worke fell from her hand,
And up she started, cald her maides, she needs must understand
That ominous outcrie. ‘Come,’ said she, ‘I heare through all this crie
My mother's voyce shrieke; to my throte my heart bounds. Ecstasie
Utterly alters me: some fate is neare the haplesse sonnes
Of fading Priam. Would to god my words' suspicions
No eare had heard yet! O I feare, and that most heartily,
That with some stratageme the sonne of Peleus hath put by
The wall of Ilion my Lord, and (trusty of his feet)
Obtaind the chase of him alone, and now the curious heate
Of his still desperate spirit is cool'd. It let him never keep
In guard of others; before all his violent foote must step,
Or his place forfeited he held.’ Thus furie-like she went,
Two women (as she will'd) at hand, and made her quicke ascent
Up to the towre and preasse of men, her spirit in uprore. Round
She cast her greedy eye, and saw her Hector slaine and bound
T' Achilles' chariot, manlesly dragg'd to the Grecian fleet.
Blacke night strooke through her, under her Trance tooke away her feet,
And backe she shrunke with such a sway that off her head-tire flew,
Her Coronet, Call, Ribands, Vaile that golden Venus threw
On her white shoulders that high day when warre-like Hector wonne
Her hand in nuptials in the Court of king Eetion,
And that great dowre then given with her. About her on their knees
Her husband's sisters, brothers' wives, fell round, and by degrees
Recoverd her. Then, when againe her respirations found
Free passe (her mind and spirit met), these thoughts her words did sound:
‘O Hector, O me cursed dame, both borne beneath one fate,
Thou here, I in Cilician Thebes, where Placus doth elate
His shadie forehead, in the Court where king Eetion
(Haplesse) begot unhappy me—which would he had not done
To live past thee. Thou now art div'd to Pluto's gloomie throne,
Sunke through the coverts of the earth, I in a hell of mone
Left here thy widdow—one poore babe borne to unhappy both
Who thou leav'st helplesse, as he thee, he borne to all the wroth
Of woe and labour. Lands left him will others seise upon:
The Orphan day of all friends' helps robs every mother's son.
An Orphan all men suffer sad; his eyes stand still with teares;
Need tries his father's friends, and failes. Of all his favourers
If one the cup gives, tis not long; the wine he finds in it
Scarce moists his palate: if he chance to gaine the grace to sit,
Surviving father's sonnes repine, use contumelies, strike,
Bid: ‘Leave us; where's thy father's place?’ He (weeping with dislike)
Retires to me. To me, ahlas, Astyanax is he
Borne to these miseries—he that late fed on his father's knee,
To whom all knees bow'd, daintiest fare apposde him, and, when Sleepe
Lay on his temples, his cries still'd (his heart even laid in steepe
Of all things precious), a soft bed, a carefull nurse's armes
Tooke him to guardiance. But now as huge a world of harmes
Lies on his suffrance. Now thou wantst thy father's hand to friend,
O my Astyanax—O my Lord, thy hand that did defend
These gates of Ilion, these long walls by thy arme measur'd still,
Amply and onely. Yet at fleete thy naked corse must fill
Vile wormes when dogs are satiate, farre from thy parents' care,
Farre from those funerall ornaments that thy mind would prepare
(So sodaine being the chance of armes), ever expecting death.
Which taske (though my heart would not serve t' employ my hands beneath)
I made my women yet performe. Many and much in price
Were those integuments they wrought t' adorne thy Exequies;
Which, since they flie thy use, thy Corse not laid in their attire,
Thy sacrifice they shall be made; these hands in mischievous fire
Shall vent their vanities. And yet (being consecrate to thee)
They shall be kept for citizens and their faire wives to see.’
Thus spake shee weeping; all the dames, endevouring to cheare
Her desert state (fearing their owne), wept with her teare for teare.