The Iliads of Homer. Homer

hosts with amaze, they came so chin to chin,

       And, with such horrible aspécts, each other did salute.

       A fair large field was made for them; where wraths, for hugeness

       mute,

       And mutual, made them mutually at either shake their darts

       Before they threw. Then Paris first with his long jav'lin parts;

       It smote Atrides' orby targe, but ran not through the brass,

       For in it (arming well the shield) the head reflected was.

       Then did the second combatant apply him to his spear,

       Which ere he threw, he thus besought almighty Jupiter:

       "O Jove! Vouchsafe me now revenge, and that my enemy,

       For doing wrong so undeserv'd, may pay deservedly

       The pains he forfeited; and let these hands inflict those pains,

       By conqu'ring, ay, by conqu'ring dead, him on whom life complains;

       That any now, or anyone of all the brood of men

       To live hereafter, may with fear from all offence abstain,

       Much more from all such foul offence to him that was his host,

       And entertain'd him as the man whom he affected most."

       This said, he shook and threw his lance; which strook through

       Paris' shield,

       And, with the strength he gave to it, it made the curets yield,

       His coat of mail, his breast, and all, and drove his entrails in,

       In that low region where the guts in three small parts begin;

       Yet he, in bowing of his breast, prvented sable death.

       This taint he follow'd with his sword, drawn from a silver sheath,

       Which lifting high, he strook his helm full where his plume did

       stand,

       On which it piecemeal brake, and fell from his unhappy hand.

       At which he sighing stood, and star'd upon the ample sky,

       And said: "O Jove, there is no God giv'n more illiberally

       To those that serve thee than thyself, why have I pray'd in vain?

       I hop'd my hand should have reveng'd, the wrongs I still sustain,

       On him that did them, and still dares their foul defence pursue;

       And now my lance hath miss'd his end, my sword in shivers flew,

       And he 'scapes all." With this, again he rush'd upon his guest,

       And caught him by the horse-hair plume, that dangled on his crest,

       With thought to drag him to the Greeks; which he had surely done,

       And so, besides the victory, had wondrous glory won,

       (Because the needle-painted lace, with which his helm was tied

       Beneath his chin, and so about his dainty throat implied,

       Had strangled him;) but that, in time, the Cyprian seed of Jove

       Did brake the string, with which was lin'd that which the needle

       wove,

       And was the tough thong of a steer; and so the victor's palm

       Was, for so full a man-at-arms, only an empty helm.

       That then he swung about his head, and cast among his friends,

       Who scrambled, and took 't up with shouts. Again then he intends

       To force the life-blood of his foe, and ran on him amain,

       With shaken jav'lin; when the Queen, that lovers loves, again [1]

       Attended, and now ravish'd him from that encounter quite,

       With ease, and wondrous suddenly; for she, a Goddess, might.

       She hid him in a cloud of gold, and never made him known,

       Till in his chamber, fresh and sweet, she gently set him down,

       And went for Helen; whom she found in Scæa's utmost height,

       To which whole swarms of city dames had climb'd to see the sight.

       To give her errand good success, she took on her the shape

       Of beldame Græa, who was brought by Helen, in her rape,

       From Lacedæmon, and had trust in all her secrets still,

       Being old, and had (of all her maids) the main bent of her will,

       And spun for her her finest wool. Like her, Love's Empress came,

       Pull'd Helen by the heav'nly veil, and softly said: "Madame,

       My lord calls for you, you must needs make all your kind haste

       home;

       He's in your chamber, stays, and longs; sits by your bed; pray

       come,

       'Tis richly made, and sweet; but he more sweet, and looks so clear,

       So fresh, and movingly attir'd, that, seeing, you would swear

       He came not from the dusky fight, but from a courtly dance,

       Or would to dancing." This she made a charm for dalliance;

       Whose virtue Helen felt, and knew, by her so radiant eyes,

       White neck, and most enticing breasts, the deified disguise.

       At which amaz'd, she answer'd her: "Unhappy Deity!

       Why lov'st thou still in these deceits to wrap my phantasy?

       Or whither yet, of all the towns giv'n to their lust beside,

       In Phrygia, or Mæonia, com'st thou to be my guide,

       If there (of divers-languag'd men thou hast, as here in Troy,

       Some other friend to be my shame; since here thy latest joy

       By Menelaus now subdu'd, by him shall I be borne

       Home to his court, and end my life in triumphs of his scorn?

       And, to this end, would thy deceits my wanton life allure?

       Hence, go thyself to Priam's son and all the ways abjure

       Of Gods, or godlike-minded dames, nor ever turn again

       Thy earth-affecting feet to heav'n but for his sake sustain

       Toils here; guard, grace him endlessly, till he requite thy grace

       By giving thee my place with him; or take his servant's place,

       If, all dishonourable ways, your favours seek to serve

       His never-pleas'd incontinence; I better will deserve,

       Than serve his dotage now. What shame were it for me to feed

       This lust in him; all honour'd dames would hate me for the deed!

       He leaves a woman's love so sham'd, and shows so base a mind,

       To feel nor my shame nor his own; griefs of a greater kind

       Wound me than such as can admit such kind delights so soon."

       The Goddess, angry that, past shame, her mere will was not done,

       Replied: "Incense me not, you wretch, lest, once incens'd, I leave

       Thy curs'd life to as strange a hate, as yet it may receive

       A love from me; and lest I spread through both hosts such despite,

       For those plagues they have felt for thee, that both abjure thee

       quite,

       And setting thee in midst of both, turn all their wraths on thee,

       And dart thee dead; that such a death may wreak thy wrong of me."

       This