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 off’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 curséd 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 rave breaks in their bated 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 a death could enter at, My girdle, curets doubled here, and my most trusted plate, Objected all ’twixt me and death, the shaft scarce piercing one.” “Good brother,” said the king, “I wish it were no further gone, For then our best in med’cines skilled shall ope and search the wound, Applying balms to ease thy pains, and soon restore thee sound.” This said, divine Talthybiús he call’d, and bad him haste Machaon (Æsculapius’ son, who most of men was grac’d With physic’s sov’reign remedies) to come and lend his hand To Menelaus, shot by one well-skill’d in the command Of bow and arrows, one of Troy, or of the Lycian aid, Who much hath glorified our foe, and us as much dismay’d. He heard, and hasted instantly, and cast his eyes about The thickest squadrons of the Greeks, to find Machaon out. He found him standing guarded well with well-arm’d men of Thrace; With whom he quickly join’d, and said: “Man of Apollo’s race, Haste, for the king of men commands, to see a wound impress’d In Menelaus, great in arms, by one instructed best In th’ art of archery, of Troy, or of the Lycian bands, That them with much renown adorns, us with dishonour brands.” Machaon much was mov’d with this, who with the herald flew From troop to troop alongst the host; and soon they came in view Of hurt Atrides, circled round with all the Grecian kings;