He came not from the dusty 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 given to their lust beside,
In Phrygia, or Maeonia) 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 struck the fair dame with such fear, it took her speech away,
And (shadow’d in her snowy veil) she durst not but obey;
And yet, to shun the shame she fear’d, she vanish’d undescried
Of all the Trojan ladies there; for Venus was her guide.
Arriv’d at home, her women both fell to their work in haste;
When she that was of all her sex the most divinely grac’d
Ascended to a higher room, though much against her will,
Where lovely Alexander was, being led by Venus still.
The laughter-loving dame discern’d her mov’d mind, by her grace;
And for her mirth sake set a stool full before Paris face,
Where she would needs have Helen sit; who, though she durst not choose
But sit, yet look’d away for all the goddess pow’r could use,
And us’d her tongue too, and to chide whom Venus sooth’d so much;
And chid, too, in this bitter kind. ‘And was thy cowardice such
(So conquer’d) to be seen alive? O would to god thy life
Had perish’d by his worthy hand, to whom I first was wife.
Before this, thou wouldst glorify thy valour and thy lance,
And past my first love’s boast them far: go once more, and advance
Thy braves against his single power: this foil might fall by chance.
Poor conquer’d man; ’twas such a chance as I would not advise
Thy valour should provoke again: shun him, thou most unwise,
Lest next, thy spirit sent to hell, thy body be his prize.’
He answer’d: ‘Pray thee, woman, cease to chide and grieve me thus:
Disgraces will not ever last; look on their end; on us
Will other gods, at other times, let fall the victor’s wreath,
As on him Pallas put it now. Shall our love sink beneath
The hate of fortune? In love’s fire let all hates vanish. Come,
Love never so inflam’d my heart; no, not when bringing home
Thy beauty’s so delicious prize, on Cranaë’s blest shore
I long’d for, and enjoy’d thee first.’ With this he went before,
She after, to th’ odorous bed. While these to pleasure yield,
Perplex’d Atrides, savage-like, ran up and down the field,
And every thickest troop of Troy, and of their far-call’d aid,
Search’d for his foe, who could not be by any eye betray’d;
Nor out of friendship (out of doubt) did they conceal his sight,
All hated him so like their deaths, and ow’d him such despite.
At last thus spake the king of men: ‘Hear me, ye men of Troy,
Ye Dardans and the rest, whose pow’rs you in their aids employ,
The conquest on my brother’s part, ye all discern is clear:
Do you then Argive Helena, with all her treasure here,
Restore to us, and pay the mulct that by your vows is due;
Yield us an honour’d recompense, and all that should accrue
To our posterities, confirm; that when you render it,
Our acts may here be memoris’d.’ This all Greeks else thought fit.
The end of the third book
Book 4
The Argument
The gods in council at the last decree
That famous Ilion shall expugned be.
And that their own continued faults may prove
The reasons that have so incensed Jove,
Minerva seeks, with more offences done
Against the lately injur’d Atreus’ son –
A ground that clearest would make seen their sin –
To have the Lycian Pandarus begin.
He (’gainst the truce with sacred covenants bound)
Gives Menelaus a dishonour’d wound.
Machaon heals him. Agamemnon then
To mortal war incenseth all his men:
The battles join, and in the heat of light,
Cold death shuts many eyes in endless night.
Another Argument
In
Delta
is the gods’ assize;
The truce is broke; wars freshly rise.
Book 4
Within the fair-pav’d court of Jove, he and the gods conferr’d
About the sad events of Troy: amongst whom minister’d
Bless’d Hebe, nectar. As they sat and did Troy’s tow’rs behold,
They drank, and pledg’d each other round, in full-crown’d cups of gold.
The mirth at whose feast was begun by great Saturnides,
In urging a begun dislike amongst the goddesses,
But chiefly in his solemn queen, whose spleen he was dispos’d
To tempt yet further, knowing well what anger it inclos’d,
And how wives’ angers should be used. On which (thus pleas’d) he play’d:
‘Two goddesses there are that still give Menelaus aid,
And one that Paris loves. The two that sit from us so far
(Which Argive Juno is, and she that rules in deeds of war)
No doubt are pleas’d to see how well the late-seen fight did frame:
And yet upon the adverse part, the laughter-loving dame
Made her pow’r good too for her friend. For though he were so near
The stroke of death in th’ other’s hopes, she took him from them clear:
The conquest yet is questionless the martial Spartan king’s;
We must consult then what events shall crown these future things,
If wars and combats we shall still with even successes strike,
Or as impartial friendship plant on both parts. If ye like
The last, and that it will as well delight as merely please
Your happy deities, still let stand old Priam’s town in peace,
And let the Lacedaemon king again his queen enjoy.’
As Pallas and heaven’s queen sat close, complotting ill to Troy,
With silent murmurs they receiv’d this ill-lik’d choice from Jove.
’Gainst whom was Pallas much incens’d, because the queen of love
Could not without his leave relieve in that late point of death
The son of Priam, whom she loath’d; her wrath yet fought beneath
Her supreme wisdom, and was curb’d: but Juno needs must ease
Her great heart with her ready tongue, and said: ‘What words are these,
Austere, and too much Saturn’s son? Why wouldst thou render still
My labours idle, and the sweat of my industrious will
Dishonour with so little power? My chariot horse are tir’d
With posting to and fro for Greece, and bringing banes desir’d
To people-must’ring Priamus, and his perfidious sons:
Yet thou protect’st, and join’st with them whom each just deity shuns.
Go on, but ever go resolv’d all other gods have vow’d
To cross thy partial course for Troy, in all that makes it proud.’
At this, the cloud-compelling Jove a far-fetch’d sigh let fly,
And said: ‘Thou fury! What offence of such impiety
Hath Priam or his sons done thee, that with so high a hate
Thou shouldst thus ceaselessly desire to raze and ruinate
So well a builded town as Troy? I think, hadst thou the pow’r,
Thou wouldst the ports and far-stretch’d walls fly over, and devour
Old Priam and his issue quick, and make all Troy thy feast;
And then at length I hope thy wrath and tired spleen would rest:
To which run on thy chariot, that nought be found in me
Of just cause to our future jars. In this yet strengthen thee,
And fix it in thy memory fast, that if I entertain
As peremptory a desire to level with the plain
A city where thy loved live, stand not betwixt my ire
And what it aims at, but give way, when thou hast thy desire,
Which now I grant thee willingly, although against Troy will:
For not beneath the ample sun, and heaven’s star-bearing hill,
There is a town of earthly men so honour’d in my mind
As sacred Troy, nor of earth’s kings as Priam and his kind,
Who never let my altars lack rich feast of of
f
’rings slain,
And their sweet savours: for which grace I honour them again.’
Dread Juno, with the cow’s fair eyes, replied: ‘Three towns there are
Of great and eminent respect, both in my love and care:
Mycenae, with the broad highways; and Argos, rich in horse;
And Sparta; all which three destroy, when thou envy’st their force:
I will not aid them, nor malign thy free and sovereign will;
For if I should be envious, and set against their ill,
I know my envy were in vain, since thou art mightier far:
But we must give each other leave, and wink at either’s war.
I likewise must have pow’r to crown my works with wished end,
Because I am a deity, and did from thence descend,
Whence thou thyself, and th’ elder born: wise Saturn was our sire,
And thus there is a two-fold cause that pleads for my desire,
Being sister, and am call’d thy wife: and more, since thy command
Rules all gods else, I claim therein a like superior hand.
All wrath before then now remit, and mutually combine
In either’s empire; I thy rule, and thou illustrate mine.
So will the other gods agree, and we shall all be strong.
And first (for this late plot) with speed let Pallas go among
The Trojans, and some one of them entice to break the truce,
By of
f
’ring in some treacherous wound the honour’d Greeks abuse.’
The father both of men and gods agreed; and Pallas sent
With these wing’d words to both the hosts: ‘Make all haste, and invent
Some mean by which the men of Troy, against the truce agreed,
May stir the glorious Greeks to arms, with some inglorious deed.’
Thus charg’d he her with haste, that did before in haste abound;
Who cast herself from all the heights with which steep heaven is crown’d:
And as Jove brandishing a star (which man a comet calls)
Hurls out his curled hair abroad, that from his brand exhals
A thousand sparks, to fleets at sea, and every mighty host,
Of all presages and ill-haps a sign mistrusted most:
So Pallas fell ’twixt both the camps, and suddenly was lost;
When through the breasts of all that saw she struck a strong amaze,
With viewing in her whole descent her bright and ominous blaze.
When straight one to another turn’d, and said: ‘Now thund’ring Jove
(Great arbiter of peace and arms) will either ’stablish love
Amongst our nations, or renew such war as never was.’
Thus either army did presage, when Pallas made her pass
Amongst the multitude of Troy; who now put on the grace
Of brave Laodocus, the flow’r of old Antenor’s race,
And sought for Lycian Pandarus, a man that being bred
Out of a faithless family, she thought was fit to shed
The blood of any innocent, and break the covenant sworn.
He was Lycaon’s son, whom Jove into a wolf did turn
For sacrificing of a child, and yet in arms renown’d,
As one that was inculpable: him Pallas standing found,
And round about him his strong troops that bore the shady shields:
He brought them from Aesepus flood, let through the Lycian fields.
Whom standing near, she whisper’d thus: ‘Lycaon’s warlike son,
Shall I despair at thy kind hands to have a favour done?
Nor dar’st thou let an arrow fly upon the Spartan king?
It would be such a grace to Troy, and such a glorious thing,
That every man would give his gift; but Alexander’s hand
Would load thee with them, if he could discover from his stand
His foe’s pride struck down with thy shaft, and he himself ascend
The flaming heap of funeral: come, shoot him, princely friend.
But first invoke the god of light, that in thy land was born,
And is in archers’ art the best that ever sheaf hath worn;
To whom a hundred first-ew’d lambs vow thou in holy fire,
When safe to sacred Zelia’s tow’rs thy zealous steps retire.’
With this, the mad-gift-greedy man Minerva did persuade:
Who instantly drew forth a bow, most admirably made
Of th’ antler of a jumping goat, bred in a steep up-land;
Which archer-like (as long before he took his hidden stand,
The evick skipping from a rock) into the breast he smote,
And headlong fell’d him from his cliff. The forehead of the goat
Held out a wondrous goodly palm, that sixteen branches brought:
Of all which, join’d, an useful bow a skilful bowyer wrought;
Which pick’d and polish’d, both the ends he hid with horns of gold.
And this bow, bent, he close laid down, and bad his soldiers hold
Their shields before him, lest the Greeks, discerning him, should rise
In tumults ere the Spartan king could be his arrow’s prize.
Mean space, with all his care he choos’d, and from his quiver drew
An arrow, feather’d best for flight, and yet that never flew;
Strong headed, and most apt to pierce; then took he up his bow,
And nock’d his shaft, the ground whence all their future grief did grow.
When praying to his god the sun, that was in Lycia bred,
And king of archers, promising that he the blood would shed
Of full an hundred first fallen lambs, all offer’d to his name,
When to Zelia’s sacred walls from rescu’d Troy he came –
He took his arrow by the nock, and to his bended breast
The oxy sinew close he drew, even till the pile did rest
Upon the bosom of the bow; and as that savage prise
His strength constrain’d into an orb – as if the wind did rise –
The coming of it made a noise, the sinew-forged string
Did give a mighty twang, and forth the eager shaft did sing
(Affecting speediness of flight) amongst the Achive throng.
Nor were the blessed heavenly powr’s unmindful of thy wrong,
O Menelaus; but in chief Jove’s seed, the Pillager,
Stood close before, and slack’d the force the arrow did confer,
With as much care and little hurt as doth a mother use,
And keep off from her babe, when sleep doth through his pow’rs diffuse
His golden humour; and th’ assaults of rude and busy flies
She still checks with her careful hand: for so the shaft she plies,
That on the buttons made of gold which made his girdle fast,
And where his curets double were, the fall of it she plac’d.
And thus much proof she put it to: the buckle made of gold,
The belt it fast’ned, bravely wrought, his curets double fold,
And last, the charmed plate he wore which help’d him more than all,
And ’gainst all darts and shafts bestow’d, was to his life a wall –
So (through all these) the upper skin the head did only race;
Yet forth the blood flow’d, which did much his royal person grace,
And show’d upon his ivory skin, as doth a purple dye
Laid (by a dame of Caria, or lovely Maeony)
On ivory, wrought in ornaments to deck the cheeks of horse,
Which in her marriage room must lie: whose beauties have such force,
That they are wish’d of many knights; but are such precious things,
That they are kept for horse that draw the chariots of kings:
Which horse, so deck’d, the charioteer esteems a grace to him.
Like these in grace the blood upon thy solid thighs did swim,
O Menelaus, down thy calves and ankles to the ground:
For nothing decks a soldier so, as doth an honour’d wound.
Yet fearing he had far’d much worse, the hair stood up on end
On Agamemnon, when he saw so much black blood descend.
And stif
f
’ned with the like dismay was Menelaus too:
But seeing th’ arrow’s stale without, and that the head did go
No further than it might be seen, he call’d his spirits again:
Which Agamemnon marking not, but thinking he was slain,
He grip’t his brother by the hand, and sigh’d as he would break,
Which sigh the whole host took from him; who thus at last did speak:
‘O dearest brother, is’t for this – that thy death must be wrought –
Wrought I this truce? For this hast thou the single combat fought
For all the army of the Greeks? For this hath Ilion sworn,
And trod all faith beneath their feet? Yet all this hath not worn
The right we challeng’d out of force; this cannot render vain
Our stricken right hands, sacred wine, nor all our of
f
’rings slain:
For though Olympius be not quick in making good our ill,
He will be sure as he is slow; and sharplier prove his will.
Their own hands shall be ministers of those plagues they despise
Which shall their wives and children reach, and all their progenies.
For both in mind and soul I know that there shall come a day
When Ilion – Priam – all his pow’r shall quite be worn away,
When heav’n-inhabiting Jove shall shake his fiery shield at all,
For this one mischief. This I know, the world cannot recall.
But be all this, all my grief still for thee will be the same,
Dear brother, if thy life must here put out his royal flame:
I shall to sandy Argos turn with infamy my face,
And all the Greeks will call for home: old Priam and his race
Will flame in glory, Helena untouch’d be still their prey,
And thy bones in our enemies’ earth our cursed fates shall lay;
Thy sepulchre be trodden down, the pride of Troy desire
(Insulting on it). Thus, O thus, let Agamemnon’s ire
In all his acts be expiate, as now he carries home
His idle army, empty ships, and leaves here overcome
Good Menelaus. When this brave breaks in their hated breath,
Then let the broad earth swallow me, and take me quick to death.’
‘Nor shall this ever chance,’ said he, ‘and therefore be of cheer,
Lest all the army, led by you, your passions put in fear:
The arrow fell in no such place as death could enter at;
My girdle, curets doubled here, and my most trusted plate,