It fits not one that moves The hearts of all, to live unmov’d, and succour hates for loves. The Gods themselves are flexible; whose virtues, honours, pow’rs, Are more than thine, yet they will bend their breasts as we bend ours. Perfumes, benign devotions, savours of off’rings burn’d, And holy rites, the engines are with which their hearts are turn’d, By men that pray to them, whose faith their sins have falsified. For Pray’rs are daughters of great Jove, lame, wrinkled, ruddy-ey’d, And ever following injury, who, strong and sound of feet, Flies through the world, afflicting men. Believing Prayers yet, To all that love that Seed of Jove, the certain blessing get To have Jove hear, and help them too; but if he shall refuse, And stand inflexible to them, they fly to Jove, and use Their pow’rs against him, that the wrongs he doth to them may fall On his own head, and pay those pains whose cure he fails to call. Then, great Achilles, honour thou this sacred Seed of Jove, And yield to them, since other men of greatest minds they move. If Agamemnon would not give the self-same gifts he vows, But offer other afterwards, and in his still-bent brows Entomb his honour and his word, I would not thus exhort, With wrath appeas’d, thy aid to Greece, though plagu’d in heaviest sort; But much he presently will give, and after yield the rest. T’ assure which he hath sent to thee the men thou lovest best, And most renown’d of all the host, that they might soften thee. Then let not both their pains and pray’rs lost and despiséd be, Before which none could reprehend the tumult of thy heart, But now to rest inexpiate were much too rude a part. Of ancient worthies we have heard, when they were more displeas’d, To their high fames, with gifts and pray’rs they have been still appeas’d. For instance, I remember well a fact perform’d of old, Which to you all, my friends, I’ll tell: The Curets wars did hold With the well-fought Ætolians, where mutual lives had end About the city Calydon. Th’ Ætolians did defend Their flourishing country, which to spoil the Curets did contend. Diana with-the-golden-throne, with Oeneus much incens’d, Since with his plenteous land’s first fruits she was not reverenc’d, (Yet other Gods, with hecatombs, had feasts, and she alone, Great Jove’s bright daughter, left unserv’d, or by oblivion, Or undue knowledge of her dues) much hurt in heart she swore; And she, enrag’d, excited much, she sent a sylvan boar From their green groves, with wounding tusks; who usually did spoil King Oeneus’ fields, his lofty woods laid prostrate on the soil, Rent by the roots trees fresh, adorn’d with fragrant apple flow’rs. Which Meleager (Oeneus’ son) slew, with assembl’d pow’rs Of hunters, and of fiercest hounds, from many cities brought; For such he was that with few lives his death could not be bought, Heaps of dead humans, by his rage, the fun’ral piles applied. Yet, slain at last, the Goddess stirr’d about his head, and hide,