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 heav’n is crown’d. And as Jove, brandishing a star, which men a comet call, Hurls out his curled hair abroad, that from his brand exhals A thousand sparks, to fleets at sea, and ev’ry 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 strook 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 cov’nant 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 Æsepus’ 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 ev’ry 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 strook 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 upland, Which archer-like (as long before he took his hidden stand, The evicke 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 prise. Mean space, with all his care he choos’d, and from his quiver drew,