Classic Poem

Thus deaths hand clos'd his eyes;
His soule flying his faire limbs, 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'll 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 limb:
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 AEacides) now that the gods have brought
This man thus downe; I'll 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,
Unsepulcher'd; 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; Paeans sing; and all our navie greete
With endlesse honor; we have slaine, Hector, the period
Of all Troys 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 Troys late Gracious; by Jupiter exil'd
To all disgrace, in his owne land, and by his parents seene.
When (like her sonnes head) all with dust, Troys 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 prostate 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.