Iliad

Thus, chas'd like hinds, the Ilians took time to drink and eat,

And to refresh them, getting off the mingled dust and sweat,

And good strong rampires on instead. The Greeks then cast their shields

Aloft their shoulders; and now Fate their near invasion yields

Of those tough walls, 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 ask'd: “Why, Peleus' son,

Pursu'st thou, being a man, a God? Thy rage hath never done.

Acknowledge not thine eyes my state? Esteems thy mind no more

Thy honour in the chase of Troy, but puts my chase before

Their utter conquest? They are all now hous'd in Ilion,

While thou hunt'st me. What wishest thou? My blood will never run

On thy proud jav'lin.” “It is thou,” replied Æacides,

“That putt'st dishonour thus on me, thou worst of Deities.

Thou turn'dst me from the walls, whose ports had never entertain'd

Numbers now enter'd, over whom thy saving hand hath reign'd,

And robb'd my honour; and all is, since all thy actions stand

Past fear of reck'ning. But held I the measure in my hand,

It should afford thee dear-bought scapes.” Thus with elated spirits,

Steed-like, that at Olympus' games wears garlands for his merits,

And rattles home his chariot, extending all his pride,

Achilles so parts with the God. When aged Priam spied

The great Greek come, spher'd round with beams and showing as if the star,

Surnam'd Orion's hound, that springs in autumn, and sends far

His radiance through a world of stars, of all whose beams his own

Cast greatest splendour, the midnight that renders them most shown

Then being their foil; and on their points, cure-passing fevers then

Come shaking down into the joints of miserable men;

As this were fall'n to earth, and shot along the field his rays

Now towards Priam, when he saw in great Æacides,

Out flew his tender voice in shrieks, and with rais'd hands he smit

His rev'rend head, then up to heav'n he cast them, showing it

What plagues it sent him, down again then threw them to his son,

To make him shun them. He now stood without steep Ilion,

Thirsting the combat; and to him thus miserably cried

The kind old king: “O Hector, fly this man, this homicide,

That straight will stroy thee. He's too strong, and would to heav'n he were

As strong in heav'n's love as in mine! Vultures and dogs should tear

His prostrate carcass, all my woes quench'd with his bloody spirits.

He has robb'd me of many sons and worthy, and their merits

Sold to far islands. Two of them, ah me! I miss but now,

They are not enter'd, nor stay here. Laothoe, O 'twas thou,

O queen of women, from whose womb they breath'd. O did the tents

Detain them only, brass and gold would purchase safe events

To their sad durance; 'tis within; old Altes, young in fame,

Gave plenty for his daughter's dow'r; but if they fed the flame

Of this man's fury, woe is me, woe to my wretched queen!

But in our state's woe their two deaths will nought at all be seen,

So thy life quit them. Take the town, retire, dear son, and save

Troy's husbands and her wives, nor give thine own life to the grave

For this man's glory. Pity me, me, wretch, so long alive,

Whom in the door of age Jove keeps: that so he may deprive

My being, in fortune's utmost curse, to see the blackest thread

Of this life's mis'ries, my sons slain, my daughters ravishéd,

Their resting chambers sack'd, their babes, torn from them, on their knees

Pleading for mercy, themselves dragg'd to Grecian slaveries,

And all this drawn through my red eyes. Then last of all kneel I,

Alone, all helpless at my gates, before my enemy,

That ruthless gives me to my dogs, all the deformity

Of age discover'd; and all this thy death, sought wilfully,

Will pour on me. A fair young man at all parts it beseems,

Being bravely slain, to lie all gash'd, and wear the worst extremes

Of war's most cruelty; no wound, of whatsoever ruth,

But is his ornament; but I, a man so far from youth,

White head, white-bearded, wrinkled, pin'd, all shames must show the eye.

Live, prevent this then, this most shame of all man's misery.”

Thus wept the old king, and tore off his white hair; yet all these

Retir'd not Hector. Hecuba then fell upon her knees,

Stripp'd nak'd her bosom, show'd her breasts, and bad him rev'rence them,

And pity her. If ever she had quieted his exclaim,

He would cease hers, and take the town, not tempting the rude field

When all had left it: “Think,” said she, 'I gave thee life to yield

My life recomfort; thy rich wife shall have no rites of thee,

Nor do thee rites; our tears shall pay thy corse no obsequy,

Being ravish'd from us, Grecian dogs nourish'd with what I nurs'd.”

Thus wept both these, and to his ruth propos'd the utmost worst

Of what could chance them; yet he stay'd. And now drew deadly near

Mighty Achilles; yet he still kept deadly station there.

Look how a dragon, when she sees a traveller bent upon

Her breeding den, her bosom fed with full contagión,

Gathers her forces, sits him firm, and at his nearest pace

Wraps all her cavern in her folds, and thrusts a horrid face

Out at his entry; Hector so, with unextinguish'd spirit,

Stood great Achilles, stirr'd no foot, but at the prominent turret

Bent to his bright shield, and resolv'd to bear fall'n heav'n on it.

Yet all this resolute abode did not so truly fit

His free election; but he felt a much more galling spur

To the performance, with conceit of what he should incur

Ent'ring, like others, for this cause; to which he thus gave way:

“O me, if I shall take the town, Polydamas will lay

This flight and all this death on me; who counsell'd me to lead

My pow'rs to Troy this last black night, when so I saw make head

Incens'd Achilles. I yet stay'd, 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 fear

Hath bred this scandal, all our town now burns my ominous ear

With whisp'ring: 'Hector's self-conceit hath cast away his host.'

And, this true, this extremity that I rely on most

Is best for me: stay, and retire with this man's life; or die

Here for our city with renown, since all else fled but I.

And yet one way cuts both these ways: What if I hang my shield

My helm and lance here on these walls, and meet in humble field

Renown'd Achilles, off'ring him Helen and all the wealth,

Whatever in his hollow keels bore Alexander's stealth

For both th' Atrides? For the rest, whatever is possess'd

In all this city, known or hid, by oath shall be confess'd

Of all our citizens; of which one half the Greeks shall have,

One half themselves. But why, lov'd soul, would these suggestions save

Thy state still in me? I'll not sue; nor would he grant, but I,

Mine arms cast off, should be assur'd a woman's death to die.

To men of oak and rock, no words; virgins and youths talk thus,

Virgins and youths that love and woo; there's other war with us;

What blows and conflicts urge, we cry, hates and defiances,

And, with the garlands these trees bear, try which hand Jove will bless.”

These thoughts employ'd his stay; and now Achilles comes, now near

His Mars-like presence terribly came brandishing his spear,

His right arm shook it, his bright arms like day came glitt'ring on,

Like fire-light, or the light of heav'n shot from the rising sun,

This sight outwrought discourse, cold fear shook Hector from his stand;

No more stay now; all ports were left; he fled in fear the hand

Of that Fear-Master; who, hawk-like, air's swiftest passenger,

That holds a tim'rous dove in chase, and with command doth bear

His fi'ry onset, the dove hastes, the hawk comes whizzing on,

This way and that he turns and winds, and cuffs the pigeón,

And, till he truss it, his great spirit lays hot charge on his wing;

So urg'd Achilles Hector's flight; so still fear's point did sting

His troubled spirit, his knees wrought hard, along the wall he flew,

In that fair chariot-way that runs, beneath the tow'r of view,

And Troy's wild fig-tree, till they reach'd where those two mother-springs

Of deep Scamander pour'd abroad their silver murmurings;

One warm and casts out fumes as fire; the other cold as snow,

Or hail dissolv'd. And when the sun made ardent summer glow,

There water's concrete crystal shin'd; near which were cisterns made,

All pav'd and clear, where Trojan wives and their fair daughters had

Laundry for their fine linen weeds, in times of cleanly peace,

Before the Grecians brought their siege. These captains noted these,

One flying, th' other in pursuit; a strong man flew before,

A stronger follow'd him by far, and close up to him bore;

Both did their best, for neither now ran for a sacrifice,

Or for the sacrificer's hide, our runners' usual prize;

These ran for tame-horse Hector's soul. And as two running steeds,

Back'd in some set race for a game, that tries their swiftest speeds,

(A tripod, or a woman, giv'n for some man's funerals)

Such speed made these men, and on foot ran thrice about the walls.

The Gods beheld them, all much mov'd; and Jove said: “O ill sight!

A man I love much, I see forc'd in most unworthy flight

About great Ilion. My heart grieves; he paid so many vows,

With thighs of sacrificéd beeves, both on the lofty brows

Of Ida, and in Ilion's height. Consult we, shall we free

His life from death, or give it now t' Achilles' victory?”

Minerva answer'd: “Alter Fate? One long since mark'd for death?

Now take from death? Do thou; but know, he still shall run beneath

Our other censures.” “Be it then,” replied the Thunderer,

“My lov'd Tritonia, at thy will; in this I will prefer

Thy free intention, work it all.” Then stoop'd She from the sky

To this great combat. Peleus' son pursu'd incessantly

Still-flying Hector. As a hound that having rous'd a hart,

Although he tappish ne'er so oft, and ev'ry shrubby part

Attempts for strength, and trembles in, the hound doth still pursue

So close that not a foot he fails, but hunts it still at view;

So plied Achilles Hector's steps; as oft as he assay'd

The Dardan ports and tow'rs for strength (to fetch from thence some aid

With wingéd shafts) so oft forc'd he amends of pace, and stept

'Twixt him and all his hopes, and still upon the field he kept

His utmost turnings to the town. And yet, as in a dream,

One thinks he gives another chase, when such a fain'd extreme

Possesseth both, that he in chase the chaser cannot fly,

Nor can the chaser get to hand his flying enemy;

So nor Achilles' chase could reach the flight of Hector's pace,

Nor Hector's flight enlarge itself of swift Achilles' chace.

But how chanc'd this? How, all this time, could Hector bear the knees

Of fierce Achilles with his own, and keep off destinies,

If Phœbus, for his last and best, through all that course had fail'd

To add his succours to his nerves, and, as his foe assail'd

Near and within him, fed his 'scape? Achilles yet well knew

His knees would fetch him, and gave signs to some friends (making shew

Of shooting at him) to forbear, lest they detracted so

From his full glory in first wounds, and in the overthrow

Make his hand last. But when they reach'd the fourth time the two founts,

Then Jove his golden scales weigh'd up, and took the last accounts

Of fate for Hector, putting in for him and Peleus' son

Two fates of bitter death; of which high heav'n receiv'd the one,

The other hell; so low declin'd the light of Hector's life.

Then Phœbus left him, when war's Queen came to resolve the strife

In th' other's knowledge: “Now,” said she, “Jove-lov'd Æacides,

I hope at last to make renown perform a brave access

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 púrsuit still, though at the feet of Jove

Apollo bows into a sphere, soliciting more love

To his most favour'd. Breathe thee then, stand firm, myself will haste

And hearten Hector to change blows.” She went, and he stood fast,

Lean'd on his lance, and much was joy'd that single strokes should try

This fadging conflict. Then came close the changéd Deity

To Hector, like Deiphobus in shape and voice, and said:

“O brother, thou art too much urg'd to be thus combated

About our own walls; 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) dear to me, but now exceeding more

It costs me honour, that, thus urg'd, thou com'st to part the charge

Of my last fortunes; other friends keep town, and leave at large

My rack'd endeavours.” She replied: “Good brother, 'tis most true,

One after other, king and queen, and all our friends, did sue,

Ev'n 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, thirsty of his blood; no more let's fear to lay

Cost on our lances, but approve, if, bloodied with our spoils,

He can bear glory to their fleet, or shut up all their toils

In his one suff'rance on thy lance.” With this deceit she led,

And, both come near, thus Hector spake: “Thrice have I compasséd

This great town, Peleus' son, in flight, with aversation

That out of fate put off my steps; but now all flight is flown,

The short course set up, death or life. Our resolutions yet

Must shun all rudeness, and the Gods before our valour set

For use of victory; and they being worthiest witnesses

Of all vows, since they keep vows best, before their Deities

Let vows of fit respect pass both, when conquest hath bestow'd

Her wreath on either. Here I vow no fury shall be show'd,

That is not manly, on thy corse, but, having spoil'd thy arms,

Resign thy person; which swear thou.” These fair and temp'rate terms

Far fled Achilles; his brows bent, and out flew this reply:

“Hector, thou only pestilence in all mortality

To my sere spirits, never set the point 'twixt thee and me

Any conditions; but as far as men and lions fly

All terms of cov'nant, lambs and wolves; in so far opposite state,

Impossible for love t' atone, stand we, till our souls satiate

The God of soldiers. Do not dream that our disjunction can

Endure condition. Therefore now, all worth that fits a man

Call to thee, all particular parts that fit a soldier,

And they all this include (besides the skill and spirit of war)

Hunger for slaughter, and a hate that eats thy heart to eat

Thy foe's heart. This stirs, this supplies in death the killing heat;

And all this need'st thou. No more flight. Pallas Athenia

Will quickly cast thee to my lance. Now, now together draw

All griefs for vengeance, both in me, and all my friends late dead

That bled thee, raging with thy lance.” This said, he brandishéd

His long lance, and away it sung; which Hector giving view,

Stoop'd low, stood firm, foreseeing it best, and quite it overflew,

Fast'ning on earth. Athenia drew it, and gave her friend,

Unseen 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 blows with threats, that mine might faint with want of spirit to dare.

But my back never turns with breath; it was not born to bear

Burthens of wounds; strike home before; drive at my breast thy spear,

As mine at thine shall, and try then if heav'n's will favour thee

With scape of my lance. O would Jove would take it after me,

And make thy bosom take it all! An easy end would crown

Our difficult wars, were thy soul fled, thou most bane of our town.”

Thus flew his dart, touch'd at the midst of his black shield, and flew

A huge way from it; but his heart wrath enter'd with the view

Of that hard scape, and heavy thoughts strook through him, when he spied

His brother vanish'd, and no lance beside left; out he cried:

“Deiphobus, another lance.” Lance nor Deiphobus

Stood near his call. And then his mind saw all things ominous,

And thus suggested: “Woe is me, the Gods have call'd, and I

Must meet death here! Deiphobus I well hop'd had been by

With his white shield; but our strong walls shield him, and this deceit

Flows from Minerva. Now, O now, ill death comes, no more flight,

No more recovery. O Jove, this hath been otherwise;

Thy bright son and thyself have set the Greeks a greater prize

Of Hector's blood than now; of which, ev'n jealous, you had care,

But Fate now conquers; I am hers; and yet not she shall share

In my renown; 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, sharp and broad, and bore a deadly weight,

With which he rush'd in. And look how an eagle from her height

Stoops to the rapture of a lamb, or cuffs a tim'rous hare;

So fell in Hector; and at him Achilles; his mind's fare

Was fierce and mighty, his shield cast a sun-like radiance,

Helm nodded, and his four plumes shook, and, when he rais'd his lance,

Up Hesp'rus rose 'mongst th' evening stars. His bright and sparkling eyes

Look'd through the body of his foe, and sought through all that prise

The next way to his thirsted life. Of all ways, only one

Appear'd to him, and that was where th' unequal winding bone,

That joins the shoulders and the neck, had place, and where there lay

The speeding way to death; and there his quick eye could display

The place it sought, e'en through those arms his friend Patroclus wore

When Hector slew him. There he aim'd, and there his jav'lin tore

Stern passage quite through Hector's neck; yet miss'd it so his throat

It gave him pow'r to change some words; but down to earth it got

His fainting body. Then triumph'd divine Æacides:

“Hector,” said he, “thy heart suppos'd that in my friend's decease

Thy life was safe; my absent arm not car'd for. Fool! he left

One at the fleet that better'd him, and he it is that reft

Thy strong knees thus; and now the dogs and fowls in foulest use

Shall tear thee up, thy corse expos'd to all the Greeks' abuse.”

He, fainting, said: “Let me implore, ev'n by thy knees and soul,

And thy great parents, do not see a cruelty so foul

Inflicted on me. Brass and gold receive at any rate,

And quit my person, that the peers and ladies of our state

May tomb it, and to sacred fire turn thy profane decrees.”

“Dog,” he replied, “urge not my ruth, by parents, soul, nor knees.

I would to God that any rage would let me eat thee raw,

Slic'd into pieces, so beyond the right of any law

I taste thy merits! And, believe, it flies the force of man

To rescue thy head from the dogs. Give all the gold they can,

If ten or twenty times so much as friends would rate thy price

Were tender'd here, with vows of more, to buy the cruelties

I here have vow'd, and after that thy father with his gold

Would free thyself; all that should fail to let thy mother hold

Solemnities of death with thee, and do thee such a grace

To mourn thy whole corse on a bed; which piecemeal I'll deface

With fowls and dogs.” He, dying, said: “I, knowing thee well, foresaw

Thy now tried tyranny, nor hop'd for any other law,

Of nature, or of nations; and that fear forc'd much more

Than death my flight, which never touch'd at Hector's foot before.

A soul of iron informs thee. Mark, what vengeance th' equal fates

Will give me of thee for this rage, when in the Scæan gates

Phœbus and Paris meet with thee.” Thus death's hand clos'd his eyes,

His soul flying his fair limbs to hell, mourning his destinies,

To part so with his youth and strength. Thus dead, thus Thetis' son

His prophecy answer'd: “Die thou now. When my short thread is spun,

I'll bear it as the will of Jove.” This said, his brazen spear

He drew, and stuck by; then his arms, that all embruéd were,

He spoil'd his shoulders of. 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 form;

When each to other said: “O Jove, he is not in the storm

He came to fleet in with his fire, he handles now more soft.”

“O friends,” said stern Æacides, “now that the Gods have brought

This man thus down, I'll freely say, he brought more bane to Greece

Than all his aiders. Try we then, thus arm'd at ev'ry piece,

And girding all Troy with our host, if now their hearts will leave

Their city clear, her clear stay slain, and all their lives receive,

Or hold yet, Hector being no more. But why use I a word

Of any act but what concerns my friend? Dead, undeplor'd,

Unsepulchred, he lies at fleet, unthought on! Never hour

Shall make his dead state, while the quick enjoys me, and this pow'r

To move these movers. Though in hell, men say, that such as die

Oblivion seizeth, yet in hell in me shall Memory

Hold all her forms still of my friend. Now, youths of Greece, to fleet

Bear we this body, pæans sing, and all our navy greet

With endless honour; we have slain Hector, the period

Of all Troy's glory, to whose worth all vow'd as to a God.”

This said, a work not worthy him he set to; of both feet

He bor'd the nerves through from the heel to th' ankle, and then knit

Both to his chariot with a thong of whitleather, his head

Trailing the centre. Up he got to chariot, where he laid

The arms repurchas'd, and scourg'd on his horse that freely flew.

A whirlwind made of startled dust drave with them as they drew,

With which were all his black-brown curls knotted in heaps and fil'd.

And there lay Troy's late Gracious, by Jupiter exil'd

To all disgrace in his own land, and by his parents seen;

When, like her son's head, all with dust Troy's miserable queen

Distain'd her temples, plucking off her honour'd hair, and tore

Her royal 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 down with clamour; all the town veil'd with a cloud of tears.

Ilion, with all his tops on fire, and all the massacres,

Left for the Greeks, could put on looks of no more overthrow

Than now fraid life. And yet the king did all their looks outshow.

The wretched people could not bear his sov'reign wretchedness,

Plaguing himself so, thrusting out, and praying all the press

To open him the Dardan ports, that he alone might fetch

His dearest son in, and (all fil'd with tumbling) did beseech

Each man by name, thus: “Lov'd friends, be you content, let me,

Though much ye grieve, be that poor mean to our sad remedy

Now in our wishes; I will go and pray this impious man,

Author of horrors, making proof if age's rev'rence can

Excite his pity. His own sire is old like me; and he

That got him to our griefs, perhaps, may, for my likeness, be

Mean for our ruth to him. Alas, you have no cause of cares,

Compar'd with me! I many sons, grac'd with their freshest years,

Have lost by him, and all their deaths in slaughter of this one

(Afflicted man) are doubled. This will bitterly set gone

My soul to hell. O would to heaven I could but hold him dead

In these pin'd arms, then tears on tears might fall, till all were shed

In common fortune! Now amaze their natural course doth stop,

And pricks a mad vein.” Thus he mourn'd, and with him all break ope

Their store of sorrows. The poor Queen amongst the women wept

Turn'd into anguish: “O my son,” she cried out, “why still kept

Patient of horrors is my life, when thine is vanishéd?

My days thou glorifi'dst, my nights rung of some honour'd deed

Done by thy virtues, joy to me, profit 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

There sorrow's furnace; Hector's wife not having yet been told

So much as of his stay without. She in her chamber close

Sat at her loom; a piece of work, grac'd with a both sides' gloss,

Strew'd curiously with varied flowers, her pleasure was; her care,

To heat a caldron for her lord, to bathe him turn'd from war,

Of which she chief charge gave her maids. Poor dame, she little knew

How much her cares lack'd of his case! But now the clamour flew

Up to her turret; then she shook, her work fell from her hand,

And up she started, call'd her maids, she needs must understand

That ominous outcry: “Come,” said she, I hear through all this cry

My mother's voice shriek; to my throat my heart bounds; ecstasy

Utterly alters me; some fate is near the hapless sons

Of fading Priam. Would to God my words' suspicións

No ear had heard yet! O I fear, and that most heartily,

That, with some stratagem, the son of Peleus hath put by

The wall of Ilion my lord, and, trusty of his feet,

Obtain'd the chase of him alone, and now the curious heat

Of his still desp'rate spirit is cool'd. It let him never keep

In guard of others; before all his violent foot must step,

Or his place forfeited he held.” Thus fury-like she went,

Two women, as she will'd, at hand; and made her quick ascent

Up to the tow'r and press of men, her spirit in uproar. Round

She cast her greedy eye, and saw her Hector slain, and bound

T' Achilles' chariot, manlessly dragg'd to the Grecian fleet.

Black night strook through her, under her trance took away her feet,

And back she shrunk with such a sway that off her head-tire flew,

Her coronet, caul, ribands, veil that golden Venus threw

On her white shoulders that high day when warlike Hector won

Her hand in nuptials in the court of king Eetion,

And that great dow'r then giv'n with her. About her, on their knees,

Her husband's sisters, brothers' wives, fell round, and by degrees

Recover'd her. Then, when again her respirations found

Free pass (her mind and spirit met) these thoughts her words did sound:

“O Hector, O me, curséd dame, both born beneath one fate,

Thou here, I in Cilician Thebes, where Placus doth elate

His shady forehead, in the court where king Eetion,

Hapless, begot unhappy me; which would he had not done,

To live past thee! Thou now art div'd to Pluto's gloomy throne,

Sunk through the coverts of the earth; I, in a hell of moan,

Left here thy widow; one poor babe born to unhappy both,

Whom thou leav'st helpless as he thee, he born to all the wroth

Of woe and labour. Lands left him will others seize upon;

The orphan day of all friends' helps robs ev'ry mother's son.

An orphan all men suffer sad; his eyes stand still with tears;

Need tries his father's friends, and fails; 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 gain the grace to sit,

Surviving fathers' sons repine, use contumelies, strike,

Bid, 'leave us, where's thy father's place?' He, weeping with dislike,

Retires to me, to me, alas! Astyanax is he

Born to these mis'ries; he that late fed on his father's knee,

To whom all knees bow'd, daintiest fare appos'd him; and when sleep

Lay on his temples, his cries still'd, his heart ev'n laid in steep

Of all things precious, a soft bed, a careful nurse's arms,

Took him to guardiance. But now as huge a world of harms

Lies on his suff'rance; now thou want'st 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 arm measur'd still

Amply and only. Yet at fleet thy naked corse must fill

Vile worms, when dogs are satiate, far from thy parents' care,

Far from those fun'ral ornaments that thy mind would prepare

(So sudden being the chance of arms) ever expecting death.

Which task, though my heart would not serve t' employ my hands beneath,

I made my women yet perform. Many, and much in price,

Were those integuments they wrought t' adorn thy exsequies;

Which, since they fly 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 fair wives, to see.”

Thus spake she weeping; all the dames endeavouring to cheer

Her desert state, fearing their own, wept with her tear for tear.