There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be For, as I think, they found it such delight To see fair Helen going through their town; Yea, any little common thing she did (As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, So new in its great beauty, that they said: Here we will keep her living in this town, Till all burns up together. And so, fought, In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, Over some great height, did they struggle sore, Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note How almost all men, reading that sad siege, Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least, Thought Hector the best knight a long way: Now Why should I not do this thing that I think; For even when I come to count the gains, I have them my side: men will talk, you know (We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,) When I am dead, of how this Peter clung To what he thought the right; of how he died, Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed Few men would care do now, and this is gain To me, as ease and money is to you. Moreover, too, I like the straining game Of striving well to hold up things that fall; So one becomes great. See you! in good times All men live well together, and you, too, Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? Why then, but just to fight as I do now, A halter round my neck, would be great bliss. O! I am well off. [_Aside._ Talk, and talk, and talk, I know this man has come to murder me, And yet I talk still. SIR LAMBERT. If your side were right, You might be, though you lost; but if I said, 'You are a traitor, being, as you are, Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you, Or Richards? SIR PETER. Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold! For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, Don't call me traitor. SIR LAMBERT. Furthermore, my knight, Men call you slippery on your losing side, When at Bordeaux I was ambassador, I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay. [_He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises._ SIR PETER, _rising_. They lied: and you lie, not for the first time. What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, A stolen purse? SIR LAMBERT. Nay, liar in your teeth! Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert! [_Strikes at_ Sir Peter _with a dagger_. SIR PETER, _striking him flatlings with his axe_.