Classic Poem

The games perform'd, the souldiers wholly disperst to fleete,
Supper and sleepe their onely care. Constant Achilles yet
Wept for his friend; nor sleepe it selfe, that all things doth subdue,
Could touch at him. This way and that he turn'd, and did renue
His friend's deare memorie—his grace in managing his strength,
And his strength's greatnesse—how life rackt into their utmost length
Griefes, battels, and the wraths of seas in their joynt sufferance.
Each thought of which turn'd to a teare. Sometimes he would advance
(In tumbling on the shore) his side, sometimes his face, then turne
Flat on his bosome, start upright. Although he saw the morne
Shew sea and shore his extasie he left not, till at last
Rage varied his distraction. Horse, chariot, in hast
He cald for, and (those joyn'd) the corse was to his chariot tide,
And thrice about the sepulcher he made his Furie ride,
Dragging the person. All this past, in his pavilion
Rest seisd him; but with Hector's corse his rage had never done,
Still suffering it t' oppresse the dust. Apollo yet, even dead,
Pitied the Prince, and would not see inhumane tyrannie fed
With more pollution of his lims; and therefore coverd round
His person with his golden shield, that rude dogs might not wound
His manly lineaments (which threat Achilles cruelly
Had usde in furie). But now heaven let fall a generall eye
Of pitie on him; the blest gods perswaded Mercurie
(Their good observer) to his stealth, and every deitie
Stood pleasd with it, Juno except, greene Neptune and the Maide
Grac't with the blew eyes. All their hearts stood hatefully appaid
Long since, and held it as at first to Priam, Ilion
And all his subjects for the rape of his licentious sonne,
Proud Paris, that despisde these dames in their divine accesse
Made to his cottage, and praisd her that his sad wantonnesse
So costly nourisht. The twelfth morne now shin'd on the delay
Of Hector's rescue, and then spake the deitie of the day
Thus to th' immortals: ‘Shamelesse gods, authors of ill ye are
To suffer ill. Hath Hector's life at all times show'd his care
Of all your rights, in burning thighs of Beeves and Goates to you,
And are your cares no more of him? Vouchsafe ye not even now
(Even dead) to keepe him—that his wife, his mother and his sonne,
Father and subjects may be mov'd to those deeds he hath done,
See'ng you preserve him that serv'd you, and sending to their hands
His person for the rites of fire? Achilles, that withstands
All helpe to others, you can helpe—one that hath neither hart
Nor soule within him that will move or yeeld to any part
That fits a man; but Lion-like, uplandish and meere wilde,
Slave to his pride, and, all his nerves being naturally compil'd
Of eminent strength, stalkes out and preyes upon a silly sheepe—
And so fares this man. That fit ruth that now should draw so deepe
In all the world being lost in him, and Shame (a qualitie
Of so much weight that both it helpes and hurts excessively
Men in their manners) is not knowne, nor hath the powre to be
In this man's being. Other men a greater losse than he
Have undergone—a sonne, suppose, or brother of one wombe;
Yet, after dues of woes and teares, they bury in his tombe
All their deplorings. Fates have given to all that are true men
True manly patience, but this man so soothes his bloudy veine
That no bloud serves it; he must have divine-soul'd Hector bound
To his proud chariot, and danc't in a most barbarous round
About his lov'd friend's sepulcher, when he is slaine. Tis vile,
And drawes no profit after it. But let him now awhile
Marke but our angers; his is spent; let all his strength take heed
It tempts not our wraths; he begets, in this outragious deed,
The dull earth with his furie's hate.’ White-wristed Juno said
(Being much incenst): ‘This doome is one that thou wouldst have obaid,
Thou bearer of the silver bow—that we in equall care
And honour should hold Hector's worth with him that claimes a share
In our deservings? Hector suckt a mortall woman's brest,
Æacides a goddesse's. Our selfe had interest
Both in her infant nourishment and bringing up with state,
And to the humane Peleus we gave his bridall mate,
Because he had th' immortals' love. To celebrate the feast
Of their high nuptials every god was glad to be a guest,
And thou fedst of his father's cates, touching thy harpe in grace
Of that beginning of our friend—whom thy perfidious face
(In his perfection) blusheth not to match with Priam's sonne.
O thou, that to betray and shame art still companion.’
Jove thus receiv'd her: ‘Never give these brode termes to a god.
Those two men shall not be compar'd; and yet, of all that trod
The well-pav'd Ilion, none so deare to all the deities
As Hector was, at least to me. For offrings most of prise
His hands would never pretermit. Our altars ever stood
Furnisht with banquets fitting us; odors, and every good,
Smokt in our temples. And for this (foreseeing it) his fate
We markt with honour, which must stand: but to give stealth estate
In his deliverance, shun we that; nor must we favour one
To shame another. Privily, with wrong to Thetis' sonne,
We must not worke out Hector's right. There is a ransome due
And open course by lawes of armes, in which must humbly sue
The friends of Hector. Which just meane, if any god would stay
And use the other, twould not serve, for Thetis, night and day,
Is guardian to him. But would one call Iris hither, I
Would give directions, that for gifts the Troyan king should buy
His Hector's body, which the sonne of Thetis shall resigne.’
This said, his will was done; the Dame that doth in vapours shine,
Dewie and thin, footed with stormes, jumpt to the sable seas
Twixt Samos and sharpe Imber's cliffes; the lake gron'd with the presse
Of her rough feete, and (plummet-like, put in an oxe's horne
That beares death to the raw-fed fish) she div'd, and found forlorne
Thetis, lamenting her sonne's fate, who was in Troy to have
(Farre from his countrey) his death serv'd. Close to her Iris stood,
And said: ‘Rise, Thetis: prudent Jove (whose counsels thirst not blood)
Cals for thee.’ Thetis answerd her with asking: ‘What's the cause
The great god cals? My sad powres fear'd to breake th' immortall lawes
In going, fil'd with griefes, to heaven. But he sets snares for none
With colourd counsels; not a word of him but shall be done.’
She said, and tooke a sable vaile, a blacker never wore
A heavenly shoulder, and gave way. Swift Iris swum before;
About both rowld the brackish waves. They tooke their banks and flew
Up to Olympus, where they found Saturnius (farre-of-view)
Spher'd with heaven's everbeing states. Minerva rose and gave
Her place to Thetis neare to Jove, and Juno did receive
Her entry with a cup of gold, in which she dranke to her,
Grac't her with comfort, and the cup to her hand did referre.
She dranke, resigning it. And then the sire of men and gods
Thus entertain'd her: ‘Com'st thou up to these our blest abodes,
Faire goddesse Thetis, yet art sad, and that in so high kind
As passeth suffrance? This I know, and try'd thee, and now find
Thy will by mine rulde, which is rule to all worlds' government.
Besides this triall yet, this cause sent downe for thy ascent.
Nine dayes' Contention hath bene held amongst th' immortals here
For Hector's person and thy sonne; and some advices were
To have our good spie Mercurie steale from thy sonne the Corse:
But that reproch I kept farre off, to keepe in future force
Thy former love and reverence. Haste then, and tell thy sonne
The gods are angrie, and my selfe take that wrong he hath done
To Hector in worst part of all—the rather, since he still
Detaines his person. Charge him then, if he respect my will
For any reason, to resigne slaine Hector. I will send
Iris to Priam to redeeme his sonne, and recommend
Fit ransome to Achilles' grace; in which right he may joy,
And end his vaine griefe.’ To this charge bright Thetis did employ
Instant endevour. From heaven's tops she reacht Achilles' tent,
Found him still sighing, and some friends with all their complements
Soothing his humour, othersome with all contention
Dressing his dinner, all their paines and skils consum'd upon
A huge wooll-bearer slaughterd there. His reverend mother then
Came neare, tooke kindly his faire hand, and askt him: ‘Deare sonne, when
Will sorrow leave thee? How long time wilt thou thus eate thy heart,
Fed with no other food, nor rest? Twere good thou wouldst divert
Thy friend's love to some Ladie; cheare thy spirits with such kind parts
As she can quit thy grace withall. The joy of thy deserts
I shall not long have; death is neare and thy all-conquering fate,
Whose haste thou must not haste with griefe, but understand the state
Of things belonging to thy life, which quickly order. I
Am sent from Jove t' advertise thee that every deitie
Is angry with thee, himselfe most, that rage thus reigns in thee
Still to keepe Hector. Quit him then, and for fit ransome free
His injur'd person.’ He replied: ‘Let him come that shall give
The ransome, and the person take. Jove's pleasure must deprive
Men of all pleasures.’ This good speech, and many more, the sonne
And mother usde in eare of all the navall Station.
And now to holy Ilion Saturnius Iris sent:
‘Go, swiftfoote Iris, bid Troy's king beare fit gifts, and content
Achilles for his sonne's release; but let him greet alone
The Grecian navie, not a man, excepting such a one
As may his horse and chariot guide, a herald, or one old,
Attending him; and let him take his Hector. Be he bold,
Discourag'd nor with death nor feare; wise Mercurie shall guide
His passage till the Prince be neare. And (he gone) let him ride
Resolv'd even in Achilles' tent. He shall not touch the state
Of his high person, nor admit the deadliest desperate
Of all about him. For (though fierce) he is not yet unwise,
Nor inconsiderate, nor a man past awe of deities,
But passing free and curious to do a suppliant grace.’
This said, the Rainbow to her feet tied whirlewinds, and the place
Reacht instantly. The heavie Court Clamor and Mourning fill'd,
The sonnes all set about the sire; and there stood Griefe and still'd
Teares on their garments. In the midst the old king sate, his weed
All wrinkl'd, head and necke dust fil'd, the Princesses, his seed,
The Princesses, his sonnes' faire wives, all mourning by; the thought
Of friends so many, and so good (being turn'd so soone to nought
By Grecian hands) consum'd their youth, rain'd beautie from their eyes.
Iris came neare the king; her sight shooke all his faculties,
And therefore spake she soft, and said: ‘Be glad, Dardanides.
Of good occurrents, and none ill, am I Ambassadresse.
Jove greets thee, who, in care (as much as he is distant) daines
Eye to thy sorrowes, pitying thee. My ambassie containes
This charge to thee from him; he wills thou shouldst redeeme thy sonne;
Beare gifts t' Achilles, cheare him so, but visite him alone;
None but some herald let attend, thy mules and chariot
To manage for thee. Feare nor death let dant thee; Jove hath got
Hermes to guide thee, who as neare to Thetis' sonne as needs
Shall guard thee: and, being once with him, nor his nor others' deeds
Stand toucht with; he will all containe. Nor is he mad, nor vaine,
Nor impious, but with all his nerves studious to entertaine
One that submits with all fit grace.’ Thus vanisht she like wind.
He mules and chariot cals, his sonnes bids see them joynd and bind
A trunke behind it; he himselfe downe to his wardrobe goes,
Built all of Cedar, highly rooft and odoriferous,
That much stuffe worth the sight containd. To him he cald his Queene,
Thus greeting her: ‘Come, haplesse dame, an Angell I have seene
Sent downe from Jove, that bad me free our deare sonne from the fleet
With ransome pleasing to our foe. What holds thy judgement meet?
My strength and spirit layes high charge on all my being to beare
The Greeks' worst, ventring through their host.’ The Queene cried out to heare
His ventrous purpose, and replyed: ‘O whither now is fled
The late discretion that renown'd thy grave and knowing head
In forreine and thine owne rulde realmes, that thus thou dar'st assay
Sight of that man, in whose browes sticks the horrible decay
Of sonnes so many and so strong? Thy heart is iron I thinke.
If this sterne man (whose thirst of blood makes crueltie his drinke)
Take or but see thee, thou art dead. He nothing pities woe,
Nor honours age. Without his sight, we have enough to do
To mourne with thought of him: keepe we our Pallace, weepe we here;
Our sonne is past our helpes. Those throwes that my deliverers were
Of his unhappy lineaments told me they should be torne
With blacke-foote dogs. Almightie fate that blacke howre he was borne
Spunne in his springing thred that end, farre from his parents reach—
This bloodie fellow then ordain'd to be their meane—this wretch
Whose stony liver would to heaven I might devoure, my teeth
My sonnes' Revengers made. Curst Greeke, he gave him not his death
Doing an ill worke; he alone fought for his countrie; he
Fled not nor fear'd, but stood his worst, and cursed policie
Was his undoing.’ He replied: ‘What ever was his end
Is not our question; we must now use all meanes to defend
His end from scandall, from which act disswade not my just will,
Nor let me nourish in my house a bird presaging ill
To my good actions: tis in vaine. Had any earthly spirit
Given this suggestion, if our Priests or Soothsayers, challenging merit
Of Prophets, I might hold it false, and be the rather mov'd
To keepe my Pallace; but these eares and these selfe eyes approv'd
It was a goddesse. I will go; for not a word she spake
I know was idle. If it were, and that my fate will make
Quicke riddance of me at the fleet, kill me, Achilles. Come,
When, getting to thee, I shall find a happy dying roome
On Hector's bosome, when enough thirst of my teares finds there
Quench to his fervour.’ This resolv'd, the works most faire and deare
Of his rich screenes he brought abrode; twelve veiles wrought curiously,
Twelve plaine gownes and as many suits of wealthy tapistry,
As many mantles, horsemen's coates, ten talents of fine gold,
Two Tripods, Caldrons foure, a bowle whose value he did hold
Beyond all price, presented by th' Ambassadors of Thrace.
The old king nothing held too deare to rescue from disgrace
His gracious Hector. Forth he came. At entry of his Court
The Troyan citizens so prest that this opprobrious sort
Of checke he usde: ‘Hence, cast-awayes; away ye impious crew!
Are not your griefes enough at home? What come ye here to view?
Care ye for my griefes? Would ye see how miserable I am?
Is't not enough, imagine ye? Ye might know ere ye came
What such a sonne's losse weigh'd with me. But know this for your paines,
Your houses have the weaker doores: the Greeks will find their gaines
The easier for his losse, be sure: but, O Troy, ere I see
Thy ruine, let the doores of hell receive and ruine me.’
Thus with his scepter set he on, the crowding citizens,
Who gave backe, seeing him so urge. And now he entertaines
His sonnes as roughly—Helenus, Paris, Hippothous,
Pammon, divine Agathones, renowm'd Deiphobus,
Agavus and Antiphonus, and last, not least in armes,
The strong Polites. These nine sonnes the violence of his harmes
Helpt him to vent in these sharpe termes: ‘Haste, you infamous brood,
And get my chariot. Would to heaven that all the abject blood
In all your veines had Hector scusde. O me, accursed man,
All my good sonnes are gone; my light the shades Cimmerian
Have swallow'd from me. I have lost Mestor, surnam'd the faire;
Troilus, that readie knight at armes that made his field repaire
Ever so prompt and joyfully; and Hector, amongst men
Esteem'd a god; not from a mortal's seed but of th' eternall straine
He seem'd to all eyes. These are gone; you that survive are base,
Liers and common free-booters, all faultie, not a grace
But in your heeles in all your parts; dancing companions,
Ye all are excellent. Hence, ye brats! Love ye to heare my mones?
Will ye not get my chariot? Command it quickly; flie,
That I may perfect this deare worke.’ This all did terrifie,
And straite his mule-drawne chariot came, to which they fast did bind
The trunke with gifts. And then came forth, with an afflicted mind,
Old Hecuba. In her right hand a bowle of gold she bore
With sweet wine crown'd, stood neare, and said: ‘Receive this, and implore
(With sacrificing it to Jove) thy safe returne. I see
Thy mind likes still to go, though mine dislikes it utterly.
Pray to the blacke-cloud-gathering god (Idæan Jove) that viewes
All Troy and all her miseries, that he will deine to use
His most lov'd bird to ratifie thy hopes, that, her brode wing
Spred on thy right hand, thou maist know thy zealous offering
Accepted and thy safe returne confirm'd; but if he faile,
Faile thy intent, though never so it labours to prevaile.’
‘This I refuse not,’ he replide, ‘for no faith is so great
In Jove's high favour, but it must with held-up hands intreate.’
This said, the chamber-maid that held the Ewre and Basin by,
He bad powre water on his hands, when, looking to the skie,
He tooke the bowle, did sacrifice, and thus implor'd: ‘O Jove,
From Ida using thy commands, in all deserts above
All other gods, vouchsafe me safe, and pitie in the sight
Of great Achilles: and for trust to that wisht grace, excite
Thy swift-wing'd messenger, most strong, most of aire's region lov'd,
To sore on my right hand, which sight may firmely see approv'd
Thy former summons and my speed.’ He prayd, and heaven's king heard,
And instantly cast from his fist aire's all-commanding bird,
The blacke-wing'd huntresse, perfectest of all fowles, which gods call
Percnos, the Eagle. And how brode the chamber nuptiall
Of any mightie man hath dores, such breadth cast either wing;
Which now she usde and spred them wide on right hand of the king.
All saw it, and rejoyc't; and up to chariot he arose,
Drave foorth, the Portall and the Porch resounding as he goes.
His friends all follow'd him, and mourn'd as if he went to die,
And, bringing him past towne to field, all left him, and the eye
Of Jupiter was then his guard—who pittied him, and usde
These words to Hermes: ‘Mercurie, thy helpe hath bene profusde
Ever with most grace in consorts of travailers distrest.
Now consort Priam to the fleet, but so that not the least
Suspicion of him be attaind till at Achilles' tent
Thy convoy hath arriv'd him safe.’ This charge incontinent
He put in practise. To his feete his featherd shoes he tide,
Immortall and made all of gold, with which he usde to ride
The rough sea and th' unmeasur'd earth, and equald in his pace
The pufts of wind. Then tooke he up his rod, that hath the grace
To shut what eyes he lists with sleep and open them againe
In strongest trances. This he held, flew forth, and did attaine
To Troy and Hellespontus straite. Then, like a faire yong Prince
First-downe-chinn'd, and of such a grace as makes his lookes convince
Contending eyes to view him, forth he went to meete the king.
He, having past the mightie tombe of Ilus, watering
His Mules in Xanthus, the darke Even fell on the earth; and then
Idæus (guider of the Mules) discern'd this Grace of men,
And spake affraide to Priamus: ‘Beware, Dardanides,
Our states aske counsell: I discerne the dangerous accesse
Of some man neare us. Now I feare we perish. Is it best
To flie, or kisse his knees and aske his ruth of men distrest?’
Confusion strooke the king; cold Feare extremely quencht his vaines;
Upright upon his languishing head his haire stood; and the chaines
Of strong Amaze bound all his powres. To both which then came neare
The Prince-turn'd Deitie, tooke his hand, and thus bespake the Peere:
‘To what place, father, driv'st thou out through solitarie Night
When others sleepe? Give not the Greeks sufficient cause of fright
To these late travailes, being so neare, and such vow'd enemies?
Of all which, if with all this lode any should cast his eyes
On thy adventures, what would then thy minde esteeme thy state,
Thy selfe old and thy follower old? Resistance could not rate
At any value. As for me, be sure I mind no harme
To thy grave person, but against the hurt of others' arme.
Mine owne lov'd father did not get a greater love in me
To his good than thou dost to thine.’ He answerd: ‘The degree
Of danger in my course, faire sonne, is nothing lesse than that
Thou urgest; but some god's faire hand puts in for my safe state
That sends so sweete a Guardian in this so sterne a Time
Of night and danger as thy selfe, that all grace in his prime
Of body and of beautie shew'st, all answerd with a mind
So knowing that it cannot be but of some blessed kind
Thou art descended.’ ‘Not untrue,’ said Hermes, ‘thy conceipt
In all this holds; but further truth relate, if of such weight
As I conceive thy cariage be, and that thy care convaies
Thy goods of most price to more guard? Or go ye all your waies
Frighted from holy Ilion, so excellent a sonne
As thou had'st (being your speciall strength) falne to Destruction,
Whom no Greeke betterd for his fight?’ ‘O what art thou,’ said he,
‘Most worthy youth, of what race borne, that thus recountst to me
My wretched sonne's death with such truth?’ ‘Now, father,’ he replide,
‘You tempt me farre, in wondering how the death was signifide
Of your divine sonne to a man so mere a stranger here
As you hold me: but I am one that oft have seene him beare
His person like a god in field; and, when in heapes he slew
The Greeks, all routed to their fleet, his so victorious view
Made me admire, not feele his hand; because Æacides
(Incenst) admitted not our fight, my selfe being of accesse
To his high person, serving him, and both to Ilion
In one ship saild. Besides, by birth I breathe a Myrmidon,
Polyctor (cald the rich) my sire, declin'd with age like you.
Sixe sonnes he hath, and me a seventh; and all those sixe live now
In Phthia, since, all casting lots, my chance did onely fall
To follow hither. Now for walke I left my Generall.
Tomorrow all the Sunne-burn'd Greeks will circle Troy with armes;
The Princes rage to be withheld so idlely, your alarmes
Not given halfe hote enough they thinke, and can containe no more.’
He answerd: ‘If you serve the Prince, let me be bold t' implore
This grace of thee, and tell me true, lies Hector here at fleet,
Or have the dogs his flesh?’ He said: ‘Nor dogs nor fowle have yet
Toucht at his person: still he lies at fleet and in the tent
Of our great Captaine, who indeed is much too negligent
Of his fit usage: but, though now twelve dayes have spent their heate
On his cold body, neither wormes with any taint have eate,
Nor putrifaction perisht it. Yet ever when the Morne
Lifts her divine light from the sea, unmercifully borne
About Patroclus' sepulcher it beares his friend's disdaine,
Bound to his chariot. But no Fits of further outrage raigne
In his distemper: you would muse to see how deepe a dew
Even steepes the body, all the blood washt off, no slenderst shew
Of gore or quitture, but his wounds all closde, though many were
Opened about him. Such a love the blest immortals beare
Even dead to thy deare sonne, because his life shew'd love to them.’
He joyfull answerd: ‘O my sonne, it is a grace supreme
In any man to serve the gods. And I must needs say this:
For no cause (having season fit) my Hector's hands would misse
Advancement to the gods with gifts, and therefore do not they
Misse his remembrance after death. Now let an old man pray
Thy graces to receive this cup and keepe it for my love;
Nor leave me till the gods and thee have made my prayres approve
Achilles' pitie, by thy guide brought to his Princely tent.’
Hermes replide: ‘You tempt me now, old king, to a consent
Farre from me, though youth aptly erres. I secretly receive
Gifts that I cannot brodely vouch? take graces that will give
My Lord dishonour? or what he knowes not? or will esteeme
Perhaps unfit? Such briberies perhaps at first may seeme
Sweet and secure, but futurely they still prove sowre and breed
Both feare and danger. I could wish thy grave affaires did need
My guide to Argos, either shipt, or lackying by thy side;
And would be studious in thy guard, so nothing could be tride
But care in me to keepe thee safe, for that I could excuse
And vouch to all men.’ These words past, he put the deeds in use
For which Jove sent him. Up he leapt to Priam's chariot,
Tooke scourge and reines, and blew in strength to his free steeds, and got
The navall towres and deepe dike strait. The guards were all at meat;
Those he enslumberd, op't the ports, and in he safely let
Old Priam with his wealthy prise. Forthwith they reacht the Tent
Of great Achilles. Large and high, and in his most ascent
A shaggie roofe of seedy reeds mowne from the meades, a hall
Of state they made their king in it, and strengthned it withall,
Thicke with firre rafters; whose approch was let in by a dore
That had but one barre, but so bigge that three men evermore
Raisd it to shut, three fresh take downe—which yet Æacides
Would shut and ope himselfe. And this with farre more ease
Hermes set ope, entring the king, then leapt from horse, and said:
‘Now know, old king, that Mercurie (a god) hath given this aid
To thy endevour, sent by Jove; and now, away must I,
For men would envy thy estate to see a Deitie
Affect a man thus. Enter thou, embrace Achilles' knee,
And by his sire, sonne, mother, pray his ruth and grace to thee.’
This said, he high Olympus reacht. The king then left his coach
To grave Idæus, and went on, made his resolv'd approach
And enterd in a goodly roome, where with his Princes sate
Jove-lov'd Achilles at their feast; two onely kept the state
Of his attendance, Alcimus and Lord Automedon.
At Priam's entrie a great time Achilles gaz'd upon
His wonderd-at approch, nor eate: the rest did nothing see
While close he came up, with his hands fast holding the bent knee
Of Hector's conqueror, and kist that large man-slaughtring hand
That much blood from his sonnes had drawne. And as in some strange land
And great man's house, a man is driven (with that abhorr'd dismay
That followes wilfull bloodshed still, his fortune being to slay
One whose blood cries alowde for his) to pleade protection
In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on:
In such a stupefied estate Achilles sate to see,
So unexpected, so in night, and so incrediblie,
Old Priam's entrie. All his friends one on another star'd
To see his strange lookes, seeing no cause. Thus Priam then prepar'd
His sonne's redemption: ‘See in me, O godlike Thetis' sonne,
Thy aged father, and perhaps even now being outrunne
With some of my woes, neighbour foes (thou absent) taking time
To do him mischiefe, no meane left to terrifie the crime
Of his oppression; yet he heares thy graces still survive
And joyes to heare it, hoping still to see thee safe arrive
From ruin'd Troy. But I (curst man) of all my race shall live
To see none living. Fiftie sonnes the Deities did give
My hopes to live in—all alive when neare our trembling shore
The Greeke ships harbor'd—and one wombe nineteene of those sons bore.
Now Mars a number of their knees hath strengthlesse left, and he
That was (of all) my onely joy and Troy's sole guard, by thee
(Late fighting for his countrey) slaine, whose tenderd person now
I come to ransome. Infinite is that I offer you,
My selfe conferring it, exposde alone to all your oddes,
Onely imploring right of armes. Achilles, feare the gods,
Pitie an old man like thy sire—different in onely this,
That I am wretcheder, and beare that weight of miseries
That never man did, my curst lips enforc't to kisse that hand
That slue my children.’ This mov'd teares; his father's name did stand
(Mention'd by Priam) in much helpe to his compassion,
And mov'd Æacides so much he could not looke upon
The weeping father. With his hand, he gently put away
His grave face; calme remission now did mutually display
Her powre in either's heavinesse. Old Priam, to record
His sonne's death and his deathsman see, his teares and bosome pour'd
Before Achilles. At his feete he laid his reverend head.
Achilles' thoughts now with his sire, now with his friend, were fed.
Betwixt both Sorrow fild the tent. But now Æacides
(Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities)
Start up, and up he raisd the king. His milke-white head and beard
With pittie he beheld, and said: ‘Poore man, thy mind is scar'd
With much affliction. How durst thy person thus alone
Venture on his sight that hath slaine so many a worthy sonne,
And so deare to thee? Thy old heart is made of iron. Sit
And settle we our woes, though huge, for nothing profits it.
Cold mourning wastes but our lives' heates. The gods have destinate
That wretched mortals must live sad. Tis the immortall state
Of Deitie that lives secure. Two Tunnes of gifts there lie
In Jove's gate, one of good, one ill, that our mortalitie
Maintaine, spoile, order; which when Jove doth mixe to any man,
One while he frolicks, one while mourns. If of his mournfull Kan
A man drinks onely, onely wrongs he doth expose him to.
Sad hunger in th' abundant earth doth tosse him to and froe,
Respected nor of gods nor men. The mixt cup Peleus dranke;
Even from his birth heaven blest his life; he liv'd not that could thanke
The gods for such rare benefits as set foorth his estate.
He reign'd among his Myrmidons most rich, most fortunate,
And (though a mortall) had his bed deckt with a deathlesse Dame.
And yet withall this good, one ill god mixt, that takes all name
From all that goodnesse—his Name now (whose preservation here
Men count the crowne of their most good) not blest with powre to beare
One blossome but my selfe, and I shaken as soone as blowne.
Nor shall I live to cheare his age and give nutrition
To him that nourisht me. Farre off my rest is set in Troy,
To leave thee restlesse and thy seed. Thy selfe, that did enjoy
(As we have heard) a happie life—what Lesbos doth containe
(In times past being a blest man's seate), what the unmeasur'd maine
Of Hellespontus, Phrygia, holds, are all said to adorne
Thy Empire, wealth and sonnes enow—but, when the gods did turne
Thy blest state to partake with bane, warre and the bloods of men
Circl'd thy citie, never cleare. Sit downe and suffer then.
Mourne not inevitable things; thy teares can spring no deeds
To helpe thee, nor recall thy sonne: impacience ever breeds
Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse. And therefore sit.’ He said:
‘Give me no seate, great seed of Jove, when yet unransomed
Hector lies ritelesse in thy tents: but daigne with utmost speed
His resignation, that these eyes may see his person freed,
And thy grace satisfied with gifts. Accept what I have brought,
And turne to Phthia; tis enough thy conquering hand hath fought
Till Hector faltred under it, and Hector's father stood
With free humanitie safe.’ He frown'd, and said: ‘Give not my blood
Fresh cause of furie. I know well I must resigne thy sonne—
Jove by my mother utterd it; and what besides is done,
I know as amply, and thy selfe, old Priam, I know too.
Some god hath brought thee, for no man durst use a thought to go
On such a service; I have guards, and I have gates to stay
Easie accesses. Do not then presume thy will can sway
Like Jove's will, and incense againe my quencht blood, lest nor thou
Nor Jove gets the command of me.’ This made the old king bow,
And downe he sate in feare; the Prince leapt like a Lion forth,
Automedon and Alcimus attending; all the worth
Brought for the body they tooke downe and brought in, and with it
Idæus, herald to the king; a cote embroderd yet,
And two rich cloakes, they left to hide the person. Thetis' sonne
Cald out his women to annoint and quickly overrunne
The Corse with water, lifting it in private to the coach
Lest Priam saw and his cold blood embrac't a fierie touch
Of anger at the turpitude prophaning it and blew
Againe his wrath's fire to his death. This done, his women threw
The cote and cloake on; but the Corse Achilles' owne hand laide
Upon a bed, and, with his friends, to chariot it convaide.
For which forc't grace (abhorring so from his free mind) he wept,
Cried out for anger, and thus praide: ‘O friend, do not except
Against this favour to our foe (if in the deepe thou heare)
And that I give him to his Sire; he gave faire ransome; deare
In my observance is Jove's will, and whatsoever part
Of all these gifts by any meane I fitly may convert
To thy renowne here and will there, it shall be pour'd upon
Thy honour'd sepulcher.’ This said, he went, and what was done
Told Priam, saying: ‘Father, now thy wil's fit rites are paide,
Thy sonne is given up; in the morne thine eyes shall see him laid
Deckt in thy chariot on his bed; in meane space, let us eate.
The rich-hair'd Niobe found thoughts that made her take her meate,
Though twelve deare children she saw slaine—sixe daughters, sixe yong sons.
The sonnes incenst Apollo slue; the maides' confusions
Diana wrought, since Niobe her merits durst compare
With great Latona's, arguing that she did onely beare
Two children and her selfe had twelve. For which those onely two
Slue all her twelve; nine dayes they lay steept in their blood; her woe
Found no friend to afford them fire; Saturnius had turnd
Humanes to stones. The tenth day yet the good celestials burnd
The trunkes themselves, and Niobe, when she was tyr'd with teares,
Fell to her foode; and now with rockes and wilde hils mixt she beares
(In Sipylus) the gods' wraths still—in that place where, tis said,
The Goddesse Fairies use to dance about the funerall bed
Of Achelous; where (though turn'd with cold griefe to a stone)
Heaven gives her heate enough to feele what plague comparison
With his powers (made by earth) deserves. Affect not then too farre
With griefe, like a god, being a man; but for a man's life care,
And take fit foode. Thou shalt have time, beside, to mourne thy sonne;
He shall be tearefull, thou being full; not here but Ilion
Shall finde thee weeping roomes enow.’ He said, and so arose,
And causd a silver-fleec't sheepe kill'd; his friends' skils did dispose
The fleaing, cutting of it up, and cookely spitted it,
Rosted, and drew it artfully. Automedon as fit
Was for the reverend Sewer's place, and all the browne joynts serv'd
On wicker vessell to the boord; Achilles' owne hands kerv'd;
And close they fell too. Hunger stancht, talke and observing time
Was usde of all hands. Priam sate, amaz'd to see the prime
Of Thetis' sonne, accomplisht so with stature, lookes and grace—
In which the fashion of a god he thought had chang'd his place.
Achilles fell to him as fast, admir'd as much his yeares
(Told in his grave and good aspect); his speech even charm'd his eares,
So orderd, so materiall. With this food feasted too,
Old Priam spake thus: ‘Now, Jove's seed, command that I may go,
And adde to this feast grace of rest: these lids nere closde mine eyes
Since under thy hands fled the soule of my deare sonne; sighes, cries
And woes all use from food and sleepe have taken; the base courts
Of my sad Pallace made my beds, where all the abject sorts
Of sorrow I have varied, tumbl'd in dust and hid,
No bit, no drop, of sustenance toucht.’ Then did Achilles bid
His men and women see his bed laid downe and covered
With purple Blankets, and on them an Arras Coverlid,
Wast costs of silke plush laying by. The women straite tooke lights
And two beds made with utmost speed, and all the other rites
Their Lord nam'd usde; who pleasantly the king in hand thus bore:
‘Good father, you must sleepe without, lest any Counsellor
Make his accesse in depth of night—as oft their industrie
Brings them t' impart our warre-affaires—of whom should any eye
Discerne your presence, his next steps to Agamemnon flie,
And then shall I lose all these gifts. But go to, signifie
(And that with truth) how many daies you meane to keepe the state
Of Hector's funerals; because so long would I rebate
Mine owne edge set to sacke your towne, and all our host containe
From interruption of your rites.’ He answerd: ‘If you meane
To suffer such rites to my sonne, you shall performe a part
Of most grace to me. But you know with how dismaid a heart
Our host tooke Troy, and how much Feare will therefore apprehend
Their spirits to make out againe so farre as we must send
For wood to raise our heape of death—unlesse I may assure
That this your high grace will stand good and make their passe secure;
Which if you seriously confirme, nine daies I meane to mourne,
The tenth keepe funerall and feast, th' eleventh raise and adorne
My sonne's fit Sepulcher. The twelfth (if we must needs) weele fight.’
‘Be it,’ replyed Æacides, ‘do Hector all this right.
I'le hold warre backe those whole twelve daies—of which, to free all feare,
Take this my right hand.’ This confirm'd, the old king rested there.
His Herald lodg'd by him; and both in forepart of the tent;
Achilles in an inmost roome of wondrous ornament,
Whose side bright-cheekt Briseis warm'd. Soft Sleepe tam'd gods and men—
All but most usefull Mercurie. Sleepe could not lay one chaine
On his quicke temples, taking care for getting off againe
Engaged Priam undiscern'd of those that did maintaine
The sacred watch. Above his head he stood with this demand:
‘O father, sleep'st thou so secure, still lying in the hand
Of so much ill, and being dismist by great Æacides?
Tis true, thou hast redeem'd the dead, but for thy life's release
(Should Agamemnon heare thee here) three times the price now paide
Thy sonnes' hands must repay for thee.’ This said, the king (affraid)
Start from his sleepe, Idæus cald; and (for both) Mercurie
The horse and mules (before losde) joyn'd, so soft and curiously
That no eare heard, and through the host he drave; but when they drew
To gulphy Xanthus' bright-wav'd streame up to Olympus flew
Industrious Mercurie. And now the saffron morning rose,
Spreading her white robe over all the world—when (full of woes)
They scourg'd on with the Corse to Troy, from whence no eye had seene
(Before Cassandra) their returne. She (like love's golden Queene,
Ascending Pergamus) discern'd her father's person nie,
His Herald, and her brother's Corse; and then she cast this crie
Round about Troy: ‘O Troyans, if ever ye did greet
Hector return'd from fight alive, now looke ye out and meet
His ransom'd person. Then his worth was all your citie's joy;
Now do it honour.’ Out all rusht; woman nor man in Troy
Was left; a most unmeasur'd crie tooke up their voices. Close
To Scæa's Ports they met the Corse, and to it headlong goes
The reverend mother, the deare wife, upon it strowe their haire
And lie entranced. Round about, the people broke the aire
In lamentations, and all day had staid the people there,
If Priam had not cryed: ‘Give way, give me but leave to beare
The body home, and mourne your fils.’ Then cleft the preasse and gave
Way to the chariot. To the Court Herald Idæus drave,
Where on a rich bed they bestow'd the honor'd person; round
Girt it with Singers, that the woe with skillfull voices crownd.
A wofull Elegie they sung, wept singing, and the dames
Sigh'd as they sung. Andromache the downeright prose exclames
Began to all; she on the necke of slaughterd Hector fell
And cried out: ‘O my husband! thou in youth badst youth farewell,
Left'st me a widdow, thy sole sonne an infant; our selves curst
In our birth made him right our child, for all my care, that nurst
His infancie, will never give life to his youth. Ere that,
Troy from her top will be destroy'd. Thou guardian of our state,
Thou even of all her strength the strength, thou that in care wert past
Her carefull mothers of their babes, being gone, how can she last?
Soone will the swolne fleete fill her wombe with all their servitude,
My selfe with them and thou with me, deare sonne, in labours rude
Shalt be emploid, sternely survaid by cruell Conquerors;
Or, rage not suffering life so long, some one whose hate abhorres
Thy presence (putting him in mind of his sire slaine by thine,
His brother, sonne or friend) shall worke thy ruine before mine,
Tost from some towre—for many Greeks have eate earth from the hand
Of thy strong father. In sad fight his spirit was too much mann'd,
And therefore mourne his people; we, thy Parents, my deare Lord,
For that thou mak'st endure a woe blacke and to be abhorr'd.
Of all yet thou hast left me worst, not dying in thy bed
And reaching me thy last-raisd hand; in nothing counselled,
Nothing commanded by that powre thou hadst of me, to do
Some deed for thy sake. O for these never will end my woe,
Never my teares ceasse.’ Thus wept she, and all the Ladies closde
Her passion with a generall shrieke. Then Hecuba disposde
Her thoughts in like words: ‘O my sonne, of all mine much most deare,
Deare while thou liv'dst too even to gods, and after death they were
Carefull to save thee. Being best, thou most wer't envied.
My other sonnes Achilles sold, but thee he left not dead.
Imber and Samos, the false Ports of Lemnos entertain'd
Their persons, thine, no Port but death; nor there in rest remain'd
Thy violated Corse; the Tombe of his great friend was spher'd
With thy dragg'd person; yet from death he was not therefore rer'd,
But (all his rage usde) so the gods have tenderd thy dead state
Thou liest as living, sweete and fresh, as he that felt the Fate
Of Phœbus' holy shafts.’ These words the Queene usde for her mone,
And next her Helen held that state of speech and passion:
‘O Hector, all my brothers more were not so lov'd of me
As thy most vertues. Not my Lord I held so deare as thee,
That brought me hither; before which I would I had bene brought
To ruine; for what breeds that wish (which is the mischiefe wrought
By my accesse) yet never found one harsh taunt, one word's ill
From thy sweet cariage. Twenty yeares do now their circles fill
Since my arrivall, all which time thou didst not onely beare
Thy selfe without checke, but all else that my Lord's brothers were,
Their sisters' Lords, sisters themselves, the Queen my mother in law
(The king being never but most milde), when thy man's spirits saw
Sowre and reprochfull, it would still reprove their bitternesse
With sweet words, and thy gentle soule. And therefore thy deceasse
I truly mourne for, and my selfe curse as the wretched cause,
All brode Troy yeelding me not one that any humane lawes
Of pitie or forgivenesse mov'd t' entreate me humanely,
But onely thee; all else abhorr'd me for my destinie.’
These words made even the commons mourn; to whom the king said: ‘Friends,
Now fetch wood for our funerall fire, nor feare the foe intends
Ambush or any violence. Achilles gave his word
At my dismission that twelve dayes he would keepe sheath'd his sword
And all men's else.’ Thus oxen, mules, in chariots straite they put,
Went forth, and an unmeasur'd pile of Sylvane matter cut;
Nine daies emploide in cariage; but, when the tenth morne shinde
On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-be-divin'd
Forth to be burn'd. Troy swum in teares. Upon the pile's most height
They laid the person, and gave fire; all day it burn'd, all night—
But, when th' eleventh morne let on earth her rosie fingers shine,
The people flockt about the pile, and first with blackish wine
Quencht all the flames. His brothers then and friends the snowy bones
Gatherd into an urne of gold, still powring on their mones.
Then wrapt they in soft purple veiles the rich urne, digg'd a pit,
Grav'd it, ramb'd up the grave with stones, and quickly built to it
A sepulcher. But while that worke and all the funerall rites
Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, dayes and nights,
For feare of false surprise before they had imposde the crowne
To these solemnities. The tombe advanc't once, all the towne
In Jove-nurst Priam's Court partooke a passing sumptuous feast.
And so horse-taming Hector's rites gave up his soule to Rest.