THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY, AN ESSAY UPON THE SECOND BOOK OF Virgil's AENEIS.  
Written in the year, 1636.  
LONDON: Printed for Humphrey Moseley, at his shop at the sign of the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's churchyard, 1656.   

THE PREFACE.  
THere are so few Translations which deserve praise, that I scarce ever saw any which deserved pardon; those who travel in that kind, being for the most part so unhappy, as to rob others, without enriching themselves, pulling down the fame of good Authors, without raising their own: Neither hath any Author been more hardly dealt withal then this our Master; and the reason is evident, for, what is most excellent, is most inimitable; And if even the worst Authors are yet made worse by their Translators, how impossible is it not to do great injury to the best? And therefore I have not the vanity to think my Copy equal to the Original, nor (consequently) myself altogether guiltless of what I accuse others; but if I can do Virgil less injury than others have done, it will be, in some degree to do him right; and indeed, the hope of doing him more right, is the only scope of this Essay, by opening this new way of translating this Author, to those whom youth, leisure, and better fortune makes fitter for such undertakings.  
I conceive it a vulgar error in translating Poets, to affect being Fidus Interpres; let that care be with them who deal in matters of Fact, or matters of Faith: but whosoever aims at it in Poetry, as he attempts what is not required, so he shall never perform what he attempts; for it is not his business alone to translate Language into Language, but poesy into poesy; and poesy is of so subtle a spirit, that in pouring out of one Language into another, it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a Caput mortuum, there being certain Graces and Happinesses peculiar to every Language, which gives life and energy to the words; and whosoever offers at Verbal Translation, shall have the misfortune of that young Traveller, who lost his own language abroad, and brought home no other instead of it; for the grace of the Latin will be lost by being turned into English words; and the grace of the English, by being turned into the Latin Phrase. And as speech is the apparel of our thoughts, so are there certain Garbs & Modes of speaking, which vary with the times; the fashion of our clothes being not more subject to alteration, then that of our speech: and this I think Tacitus means, by that which he calls Sermonem temporis istius auribus accommodatum; the delight of change being as due to the curiosity of the ear, as of the eye; and therefore if Virgil must needs speak English, it were fit he should speak not only as a man of this Nation, but as a man of this age; and if this disguise I have put upon him (I wish I could give it a better name) sit not naturally and easily on so grave a person, yet it may become him better than that Fools-Coat wherein the French and Italian have of late presented him; at least, I hope, it will not make him appear deformed, by making any part enormously bigger or less than the life, (I having made it my principal care to follow him, as he made it his to follow Nature in all his proportions) Neither have I anywhere offered such violence to his sense, as to make it seem mine, and not his. Where my expressions are not so full as his, either our language, or my Art were defective (but I rather suspect myself;) but where mine are fuller than his, they are but the impressions which the often reading of him, hath left upon my thoughts; so that if they are not his own conceptions, they are at least the results of them; and if (being conscious of making him speak worse than he did almost in every line) I err in endeavouring sometimes to make him speak better; I hope it will be judged an error on the right hand, and such an one as may deserve pardon, if not imitation.   

ARGUMENT.  
THe first Book speaking of Aeneas his voyage by Sea, and how being cast by tempest upon the coast of Carthage, he was received by Queen Dido, who after the Feast, desires him to make the relation of the destruction of Troy, which is the Argument of this Book.   

THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY, An Essay on the second BOOK of Virgil's Aeneis.  

WHile all with silence and attention wait,  
Thus speaks Aeneas from the bed of State.  
Madam, when you command us to review  
Our Fate, you make our old wounds bleed anew,  
And all those sorrows to my sense restore,  
Whereof none saw so much, none suffered more,  
Not the most cruel of Our conqu'ering Foes  
So unconcernedly can relate our woes,  
As not to lend a tear, Then how can I  
Repress the horror of my thoughts, which fly  
The sad remembrance. Now th' expiring night  
And the declining Stars to rest invite;  
Yet since 'tis your command, what you, so well  
Are pleased to hear, I cannot grieve to tell.   

By Fate repelled, and with repulses tired  
The Greeks, so many Lives and years expired,  
A fabric like a moving Mountain frame,  
Pretending vows for their return; This, Fame  
Divulges, than within the beasts vast womb  
The choice and flower of all their Troops entomb,  
In view the Isle of Tenedos, once high  
In fame and wealth, while Troy remained, doth lie,  
(Now but an unsecure and open Bay)  
Thither by stealth the Greeks their Fleet convey,  
We gave them gone, and to Mycenae sailed,  
And Troy revived, her mourning face unvaild;  
All through th' unguarded Gates with joy resort  
To see the slighted Camp, the vacant Port,  
Here lay Ulysses, there Achilles, here  
The battles joined, the Grecian Fleet rode there;  
But the vast Pile th'amazed vulgar views  
Till they their Reason in their wonder lose,  
And first Tymaete moves, (Urged by the Power  
Of Fate, or Fraud) to place it in the Tower,  
But Capis and the graver sort thought fit,  
The Greeks suspected Present to commit  
To Seas or Flames, at least to search and bore  
The sides, and what that space contains to' explore;  
Th'uncertain Multitude with both engaged,  
Divided stands, till from the Tower, enraged,  
Laocoon ran, whom all the crowd attends,  
Crying, what desperate Frenzy's this? (oh Friends)  
To think them gone? Judge rather their retreat  
But a design, their gifts but a deceit,  
For our Destrction 'twas contrived no doubt,  
Or from within by fraud, or from without  
By force; yet know ye not Ulysses shifts?  
Their swords less danger carry then their gifts▪  
(This said) against the horse's side, his spear  
He throws, which trembles with enclosed fear,  
Whilst from the hollows of his womb proceed  
Groans, not his own; And had not Fate decreed  
Our ruin, We had filled with Grecian blood  
The Place, than Troy and Priam's Throne had stood;  
Mean while a fettered prisoner to the King  
With joyful shouts the Dardan Shepherds bring,  
Who to betray us did himself betray,  
At once the Taker, and at once the Prey,  
Firmly prepared, of one Event secured,  
Or of his Death or his Design assured.  
The Trojan Youth about the Captive flock,  
To wonder, or to pity, or to mock.  
Now hear the Grecian fraud, and from this one  
Conjecture all the rest.  
Disarmed, disordered, casting round his eyes  
On all the Troops that guarded him, he cries,  
What Land, what Sea, for me what Fate attends?  
Caught by my Foes, condemned by my Friends,  
Incensed Troy a wretched Captive seeks  
To sacrifice, a Fugitive, the Greeks,  
To pity, This Complaint our former Rage,  
Converts, we now inquire his Parentage,  
What of their counsels, or affairs he knew,  
Then fearless', he replies, Great King to you  
All truth I shall relate: Nor first can I  
Myself to be of Grecian Birth deny,  
And though my outward state, misfortune hath  
Depressed thus low, it cannot reach my Faith.  
You may by chance have heard the famous name  
Of Palimede, who from old Belus came,  
Whom, but for voting Peace, The Greeks pursue,  
Accused unjustly, then unjustly slew,  
Yet mourned his death. My Father was his friend,  
And Me to his commands did recommend,  
While Laws and counsels did his Throne support,  
I but a youth, yet some Esteem and Port  
We then did bear, till by Ulysses craft  
(Things known I speak) he was of life bereft,  
Since in dark sorrow I my days did spend,  
Till now disdaining his unworthy end  
I could not silence my Complaints, but vowed  
Revenge, if ever fate or chance allowed  
My wished return to Greece; From hence his hate,  
From thence my crimes, and all my ills bear date,  
Old guilt fresh malice gives; The people's ears  
He fills with rumours, and their hearts with fears,  
And then the Prophet to his party drew.  
But why do I these thankless truths pursue?  
Or why defer your Rage? on me, for all  
The Greeks, let your revenging fury fall.  
Ulysses this, th' Atridae this desire  
At any rate. We straight are set on fire  
(Unpractised in such Mysteries) to inquire  
The manner and the cause, Which thus he told  
With gestures humble, as his Tale was bold.  
Oft have the Greeks (the siege detesting) tired  
With tedious war a stolen retreat desired,  
And would to heaven they've gone: But still dismayed  
By Seas or Skies, unwillingly they stayed,  
Chiefly when this stupendious Pile was raised  
Strange noises filled the Air, we all amazed  
Dispatch Eurypilus to inquire our Fates  
Who thus the sentence of the Gods relates,  
A virgin's slaughter did the storm appease  
When first towards Troy the Grecians took the Seas,  
Their safe retreat another Grecians blood  
Must purchase; All, at this confounded stood.  
Each thinks himself the Man, the fear on all  
Of what, the mischief, but on one can fall:  
Then Chalcas (by Ulysses first inspired)  
Was urged to name whom th' angry Gods required,  
Yet was I warned (for many were as well  
Inspired as he) and did my fate foretell.  
Ten days the Prophet in suspense remained,  
Would no man's fate pronounce; at last constrained  
By Ithacus, he solemnly designed  
Me for the Sacrifice; the people joined  
In glad consent, and all their common fear  
Determine in my fate, the day drew near;  
The sacred Rites prepared, my Temples crowned  
With holy wreaths, Then I confess I found  
The means to my escape, my bonds I broke,  
Fled from my Guards, and in a muddy Lake  
Amongst the Sedges all the night lay hid,  
Till they their Sails had hissed (if so they did)  
And now alas no hope remains for me  
My home, my father and my sons to see,  
Whom, They enraged will kill for my Offence,  
And punish for my guilt their Innocence.  
Those Gods who know the Truths I now relate,  
That faith which yet remains inviolate  
By mortal Men, By these I beg, redress  
My causeless wrongs, and pity such distress.  
And now true pity in exchange he finds  
For his false Tears, his Tongue, his hands unbinds.  
Then spoke the King, be Ours who e'er thou art,  
Forget the Greeks. But first the truth impart.  
Why did they raise, or to what use intend  
This Pile? to'a Warlike, or Religious end?  
Skilful in fraud, (his native Art) his hands  
Towards heaven he raised, delivered now from bands.  
Ye pure Aethereal flames, ye Powers adored  
By mortal men, ye Altars, and the sword  
I scaped; ye sacred Fillets that involved  
My destined head, grant I may stand absolved  
From all their Laws and Rites, renounce all name  
Of faith or love, their secret thoughts proclaim;  
Only O Troy, preserve thy faith to me,  
If what I shall relate preserveth thee.  
From Pallas favour, all our hopes, and all  
Counsels, and Actions took Original,  
Till Diomed (for such attempts made fit  
By dire conjunction with Ulysses wit)  
Assails the sacred Tower, the Guards they slay,  
Defile with bloody hands, and thence convey  
The fatal Image; straight with our success  
Our hopes fell back, whilst prodigies express  
Her just disdain, her flaming eyes did throw  
Flashes of lightning, from each part did flow  
A briny sweat, thrice brandishing her spear,  
Her Statue from the ground itself did rear;  
Then, that we should our sacrilege restore  
And reconveigh their gods from Argos shore,  
Chalcas persuades, till than we urge in vain  
The fate of Troy. To measure back the Main  
They all consent, but to return again,  
When reinforc'd with aids of Gods and men.  
Thus Chalcas, then instead of that, this Pile  
To Pallas was designed; to reconcile  
Th' offended Power, and expiate our guilt,  
To this vast height and monstrous stature built,  
lest through your gates received, it might renew  
Your vows to her, and her Defence to you.  
But if this sacred gift you disesteem,  
Then cruel Plagues (which heaven divert on them)  
Shall fall on Priam's State: But if the horse  
Your walls ascend, assisted by your force,  
A League 'gainst Greece all Asia shall contract;  
Our Sons then suffering what their Sires would act.  
Thus by his fraud and our own faith o'ercome,  
A feigned tear destroys us, against whom  
Tydides' nor Achilles could prevail,  
Nor ten years conflict, nor a thousand sail.  
This seconded by a most sad Portent  
Which credit to the first imposture lent;  
Laocoon, Neptune's Priest, upon the day  
Devoted to that God, a Bull did slay,  
When two prodigious Serpents were descried,  
Whose circling strokes the Seas smooth face divide,  
Above the deep they raise their scaly Crests,  
And stem the flood with their erected breasts,  
Their winding tails advance and steer their course,  
And 'gainst the shore the breaking Billow force.  
Now landing, from their brandished tongues there came  
A dreadful hiss, and from their eyes a flame:  
Amazed we fly, directly in a line  
Laocoon they pursue, and first intwine  
(Each preying upon one) his tender sons,  
Then him, who armed to their rescue runs,  
They seized, and with entangling folds embraced  
His neck twice compassing, and twice his wast,  
Their poisonous knots he strives to break, and tear,  
Whilst slime and blood his sacred wreaths besmear,  
Then loudly roars, as when th'enraged Bull  
From th'Altar flies, and from his wounded skull  
Shakes the huge axe; the conquering serpents fly  
To cruel Pallas Altar, and there lie  
Under her feet, within her shields extent;  
We in our fears conclude this fate was sent  
Justly on him, who struck the Sacred Oak  
With his accursed Lance. Then to invoke  
The Goddess, and let in the fatal horse  
We all consent:  
A spacious breach we make, and Troy's proud wall  
Built by the gods, by our own hands doth fall;  
Thus, all their help to their own ruin give,  
Some draw with cords, and some the Monster drive  
With Rolls and levers, thus our works it climbs,  
Big with our fate, the youth with Songs and Rhimes,  
Some dance, some hale the Rope; at last let down  
It enters with a thundering noise the Town.  
Oh Troy the seat of gods, in war renowned;  
Three times it stuck, as oft the clashing sound  
Of Arms was heard, yet blinded by the Power  
Of Fate, we place it in the sacred Tower.  
Cassandra then foretells th'event, but she  
Finds no belief (such was the God's decree.)  
The Altars with fresh flowers we crown, and wast  
In Feasts, that day, which was (alas) our last.  
Now by the revolution of the Skies,  
Nights sable shadows from the Ocean rise,  
Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involved,  
The City in secure repose dissolved,  
When from the admiral's high Poop appears  
A light, by which the Argive Squadron Steers  
Their silent course to Ilium's well known shore,  
When Sinon (Saved by the Gods partial power)  
Opens the horse, and through the unlocked doors  
To the free air the armed freight restores:  
Ulysses, Stenelus, Tysander slide  
Down by a Rope, Machaon was their guide;  
Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas,  
And Epeus who the frauds contriver was,  
The Gates they seize, the Guards with sleep and wine  
Oppressed, surprise, and then their forces join.  
'Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repair  
Our bodies spent with toil, our minds with care  
(The God's best gift) When bathed in tears and blood  
Before my face lamenting Hector stood,  
Such his aspect when soiled with bloody dust  
Dragged by the cords which through his feet were thrust  
By his insulting Foe; O how transformed?  
How much unlike that Hector, who returned  
Clad in Achilles' spoils; when he, among  
A thousand ships (like Jove) his Lightning flung;  
His horrid Beard and knotted Tresses stood  
Stiff with his gore, and all his wounds ran blood,  
Entranced I lay, than (weeping) said, The Joy,  
The hope and stay of thy declining Troy;  
What Region held thee, whence, so much desired,  
Art thou restored to us consumed and tired  
With toils and deaths; but what sad cause confounds  
Thy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?  
Regardless of my words, he no reply  
Returns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry,  
Fly from the Flame, O Goddess-born, our walls  
The Greeks possess, and Troy confounded falls  
From all her glories; if it might have stood  
By any Power, by this right hand it should.  
What Man could do, by me for Troy was done,  
Take here her relics and her Gods, to run  
With them thy fate, with them new Walls expect,  
Which, tossed on Seas, thou shalt at last erect;  
Then brings old Vesta from her sacred choir,  
Her holy Wreaths, and her eternal Fire.  
Mean while the Walls with doubtful cries resound  
From far (for shady coverts did surround  
My father's house) approaching still more near  
The clash of arms, and voice of Men we hear▪  
Roused from my Bed, I speedily ascend  
The house's top, and listening there attend,  
As flames rolled by the winds conspiring force,  
O'er full-eared Corn, or Torrents raging course  
Bears down tho'opposing Oaks; the fields destroys  
And mocks the ploughman's toil, th'unlookt for noise  
From neighbouring hills, th'amazed Shepherd hears;  
Such my surprise, and such their rage appears.  
First fell thy house Ucalegon, than thine  
Deiphobus, Sigaan Seas did shine  
Bright with Troy's flames, the Trumpets dreadful sound,  
The louder groans of dying men confound.  
Give me my arms I cried, resolved to throw  
Myself 'mongst any that opposed the Fo:  
Rage, Anger and Despair at once suggest  
That of all deaths, to die in Arms was best.  
The first I met was Panthus, Phoebus' Priest,  
Who scaping with his Gods and relics fled  
And towards the shore his little grandchild led;  
Panthus, what hope remains? what force? what place  
Made good? but sighing he replies (alas)  
Trojans we were, and mighty Ilium was,  
But the last period and the fatal hour  
Of Troy is come, Our glory and Our Power  
Incensed Jove transfers to Grecian hands,  
The foe within, the burning Town commands,  
And (like a smothered fire) an unseen force  
Breaks from the bowels of the fatal Horse,  
Insulting Sinon flings about the flame,  
And thousands more than e'er from Argos came  
Possess the Gates, the Passes and the Streets,  
And these the sword o'ertakes, and those it meets,  
The guard nor fights nor flies, Their fate so near  
At once suspends their Courage and their fear.  
Thus by the Gods, and by Otrides words  
Inspired, I make my way through fire, through swords,  
Where Noises, Tumults, Outcries and Alarms  
I heard, first Iphitus renowned for Arms  
We meet, who knew us (for the Moon did shine)  
Than Ripheus, Hippanis and Dymas join  
Their force, and young Choraebus Mygdons' son,  
Who, by the Love of fair Cassandra, won,  
arrived but lately in her father's aid  
Unhappy, whom the threats could not dissuade  
Of his prophetic Spouse,  
Whom, when I saw, yet daring to maintain  
The fight, I said, Brave Spirits (but in vain)  
Are you resolved to follow one who dares  
Tempt all extremes, The state of Our affairs  
You see, The Gods have left us by whose aid  
Our Empire stood, nor can the flame be stayed,  
Then let us fall amidst Our Foes; this one  
Relief the vanquished have, to hope for none.  
Then reinforced, as in a stormy night  
Wolves urged by their raging appetite  
Forage for prey, which their neglected young  
With greedy jaws expect, even so among  
Foes, Fire and Swords, to'assured death we pass,  
Darkness our Guide, despair our Leader was.  
Who can relate that Evenings woes and spoils,  
Or can his tears proportion to our Toils!  
The City, which so long had flourished, falls,  
Death triumphs o'er the Houses, Temples, Walls,  
Nor only on the Trojans fell this doom,  
Their hearts at last the vanquished reassume,  
And now the victor's fall, on all sides, fears,  
Groans and pale Death in all her shapes appears,  
Androgeus first with his whole Troop was cast  
Upon us with civility misplaced,  
Thus greeting us you lose by your delay,  
Your share both of the honour and the prey,  
Others the spoils of burning Troy convey  
Back to those ships, which you but now forsake;  
We making no return, his sad mistake  
Too late he finds; As when an unseen Snake  
A Travellers unwary foot hath pressed,  
Who trembling starts, when the Snakes azure Crest,  
Swollen with his rising Anger, he espies,  
So from our view surprised Androgeus flies.  
But here an easy victory we meet:  
Fear binds their hands, and ignorance their feet,  
Whilst Fortune, our first enterprise, did aid,  
Encouraged with success, Choraebus said,  
O Friends, we now by better Fates are led,  
And the fair Path, they lead us, let us dread.  
First change your Arms, and their distinctions bear;  
The same, in foes, Deceit and virtue are.  
Then of his Arms, Androgeus he divests,  
His Sword, his shield he takes, and plumed Crests,  
Then Ripheus, Dymas, and the rest, All glad  
Of the occasion, in fresh spoils are clad.  
Thus mixed, with Greeks, as if their Fortune still  
Followed their swords, we fight, pursue, and kill.  
Some reascend the Horse, and he, whose sides  
Let forth the valiant, now, the Coward, hides.  
Some to their safer guard their ships retire,  
But vain's that hope, 'gainst which the Gods conspire:  
Behold the Royal Virgin, The Divine  
Cassandra, from Minerva's fatal shrine  
Dragged by the hair, casting tow'ards heaven, in vain,  
Her Eyes; for Cords, her tender hands, did strain:  
Choraebus, at the spectacle enraged  
Flies in amidst the foes: we thus engaged,  
To second him, amongst the thickest ran,  
Here first our ruin from our friends began,  
Who from the Temples Battlements, a shower  
Of Darts and Arrows, on our heads did power:  
They, us for Greeks, and now the Greeks (who knew  
Cassandra's rescue) us for Trojans slew.  
Then from all parts Ulysses, Ajax, then,  
And then th'Atridae rally all their men;  
As winds, that meet from several Coasts, contest,  
Their prisons being broke, The South and West,  
And Eurus on his winged Coursers born  
Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn,  
And chafing Nereus with his Trident throws  
The Billows from their bottom; Then all those  
Who in the dark Our fury did escape,  
Returning, know our borrowed Arms and shape.  
And differing Dialect, Then their numbers swell  
And grow upon us, first Choraebus fell  
Before Minerva's Altar, next did bleed  
Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed  
In virtue, yet the Gods his fate decreed.  
Then Hippanis and Dymas wounded by  
Their friends: nor thee Panthus thy Piety,  
Nor consecrared Mitre, from the same  
Ill fate could save; My country's funeral flame  
And Troy's cold ashes I attest, and call  
To witness for myself, That in their fall  
No Foes, no Death, nor Danger I declined,  
Did, and deserved no less, my Fate to find.  
Now Iphitus with me, and Pelias  
Slowly retire, the one retarded was  
By feeble Age, the other by a wound,  
To Court the Cry directs us, where We found  
Th'Assault so hot, as if 'twere only there,  
And all the rest secure from foes or fear,  
The Greeks the Gates approached, their Targets cast  
Over their heads, some scaling ladders placed  
Against the walls, the rest the steps ascend,  
And with their shields on their left Arms defend  
Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast  
The Battlement; on them the Trojans cast  
Stones, Rafters, Pillars, Beams, such Arms as these,  
Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize.  
The gilded Roofs, the marks of ancient state  
They tumble down, and now against the Gate  
Of th'Inner Court their growing force they bring,  
Now was Our last effort to save the King,  
Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead.  
A Private Gallery twixt th'appartments led,  
Not to the Foe yet known, or not observed,  
(The way for Hector's hapless wife reserved,  
When to the aged King, her little son  
She would present) Through this We pass, and run  
Up to the highest Battlement, from whence  
The Trojans threw their darts without Offence.  
A Tower so high, it seemed to reach the sky,  
Stood on the roof, from whence we could descry  
All Ilium— both the Camps, the Grecian Fleet;  
This, where the Beams upon the columns meet,  
We loosen, which like Thunder from the Cloud  
Breaks on their heads, as sudden and as loud.  
But others still succeed: mean time, nor stones  
Nor any kind of weapons cease.  
Before the Gate in gilded Armour, shone  
Young Pyrrhus, like a Snake his skin new grown,  
Who fed on poisonous herbs, all winter lay  
Under the ground, and now reviews the day  
Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young,  
Rolls up his Back, and brandishes his tongue,  
And lifts his scaly breast against the Sun,  
With him his father's Squire, Automedon  
And Periphas who drove his winged steeds,  
Enter the Court; whom all the youth succeeds  
Of Scyros' Isle, who flaming firebrands flung  
Up to the roof, Pyrrhus himself among  
The foremost with an axe an entrance hews  
Through Beams of solid Oak, then freely views  
The Chambers, Galleries, and Rooms of State,  
Where Priam and the Ancient Monarchs sat.  
At the first Gate an Armed Guard appears;  
But th'Inner Court with horror, noise and tears  
Confusedly filled, The womens' shrieks and cries,  
The Arched Vaults re-eccho to the skies,  
Sad Matrons wandering through the spacious Rooms  
Embrace and kiss the Posts, than Pyrrhus comes  
Full of his Father, neither men nor Walls  
His force sustain, the torn portcullis falls,  
Then from the hinge, their strokes the Gates divorce,  
And where the way they cannot find, they force▪  
Not with such rage a Swelling Torrent flows  
Above his banks, th'opposing Dams orethrows,  
Depopulates the Fields, the cattle, Sheep,  
Shepherds, and folds the foaming Surges sweep.  
And now between two sad extremes I stood,  
Here Pyrrhus and th' Atridae drunk with blood,  
There th'hapless Queen amongst an hundred Dames,  
And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames  
Which his own hands had on the altar laid:  
Then they the secret Cabinets invade,  
Where stood the Fifty Nuptial Beds, the hopes  
Of that great Race, The Golden Posts whose tops  
Old hostile spoils adorned, demolished lay,  
Or to the foe, or to the fire a Prey.  
Now, Priam's fate perhaps you may inquire,  
Seeing his Empire lost, his Troy on fire,  
And his own Palace by the Greeks possessed,  
Arms, long disused, his trembling limbs invest,  
Thus on his foes he threw himself alone  
Not for their Fate, but to provoke his own,  
There stood an Altar open to the view  
Of Heaven, near which an aged laurel grew,  
Whose shady arms the household Gods embraced,  
Before whose feet the Queen herself had cast  
With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives,  
As Doves whom an approaching tempest drives  
And frights into one flock; But having spied  
Old Priam clad in youthful Arms, she cried,  
Alas my wretched husband, what pretence  
To bear those Arms, and in them what defence?  
Such aid such times require not, when again  
If Hector were alive, he lived in vain;  
Or here We shall a Sanctuary find,  
Or as in life, we shall in death be joined.  
Then weeping, with kind force held and embraced,  
And on the sacred seat the King she placed;  
Mean while Polites one of Priam's sons  
Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs  
Through Foes and Swords, and ranges all the Court  
And empty Galleries amazed and hurt,  
Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills,  
And his last blood in Priam's presence spills.  
The King (though him so many deaths enclose)  
Nor fear nor grief, but Indignation shows,  
The Gods requite thee (if within the care  
Of those alone th'affairs of mortals are)  
Whose fury on the son but lost had been,  
Had not his parent's Eyes his murder seen,  
Not That Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be  
Thy Father) so inhuman was to me,  
He blushed, when I the rights of Arms implored;  
To me my Hector, me to Troy restored▪  
This said, His feeble Arm a Javelin flung,  
Which on the sounding shield, scarce entering, rung.  
Then Pyrrhus; go a messenger to Hell  
Of my black deeds, and to my Father tell  
The Acts of his degenerate Race. So through  
The Sons warm blood, the Trembling King he drew  
To th'Altar: in his hair one hand he wreathes;  
His sword, the other, in his Bosom sheaths.  
Thus fell the King, who yet survived the State,  
With such a signal and peculiar Fate,  
Under so vast a ruin not a Grave,  
Nor in such flames a funeral fire to have:  
He, whom such Titles swelled, such Power made proud,  
To whom the sceptres of all Asia bowed,  
On the cold earth lies this neglected King,  
A headless carcase, and a nameless Thing.   
FINIS.