With your rare bounties.” Atreus’ son thought this the better side, And meant to take it, being about to send him safe to fleet; Which when, far off, his brother saw, he wing’d his royal feet, And came in threat’ning, crying out: “O soft heart! What’s the cause Thou spar’st these men thus? Have not they observ’d these gentle laws Of mild humanity to thee, with mighty argument Why thou shouldst deal thus; in thy house, and with all precedent Of honour’d guest-rites, entertain’d? Not one of them shall fly A bitter end for it from heav’n, and much less, dotingly, ‘Scape our revengeful fingers; all, ev’n th’ infant in the womb, Shall taste of what they merited, and have no other tomb Than razéd Ilion; nor their race have more fruit than the dust.” This just cause turn’d his brother’s mind, who violently thrust The pris’ner from him; in whose guts the king of men impress’d His ashen lance, which (pitching down his foot upon the breast Of him that upwards fell) he drew; then Nestor spake to all: “O friends, and household men of Mars, let not your púrsuit fall, With those ye fell, for present spoil; nor, like the king of men, Let any ’scape unfell’d; but on, dispatch them all, and then Ye shall have time enough to spoil.” This made so strong their chace, That all the Trojans had been hous’d, and never turned a face, Had not the Priamist Helenus, an augur most of name, Will’d Hector and Æneas thus: “Hector! Anchises’ fame! Since on your shoulders, with good cause, the weighty burden lies Of Troy and Lycia (being both of noblest faculties For counsel, strength of hand, and apt to take chance at her best In ev’ry turn she makes) stand fast, and suffer not the rest, By any way search’d out for ’scape, to come within the ports, Lest, fled into their wives’ kind arms, they there be made the sports Of the pursuing enemy. Exhort, and force your bands To turn their faces; and, while we employ our ventur’d hands, Though in a hard conditión, to make the other stay, Hector, go thou to Ilion, and our queen-mother pray To take the richest robe she hath; the same that’s chiefly dear To her court fancy; with which gem, assembling more to her Of Troy’s chief matrons, let all go, for fear of all our fates, To Pallas’ temple, take the key, unlock the leavy gates, Enter, and reach the highest tow’r, where her Palladium stands, And on it put the precious veil with pure and rev’rend hands, And vow to her, besides the gift, a sacrificing stroke Of twelve fat heifers-of-a-year, that never felt the yoke, (Most answ’ring to her maiden state) if she will pity us, Our town, our wives, our youngest joys, and him, that plagues them thus, Take from the conflict, Diomed, that fury in a fight, That true son of great Tydeús, that cunning lord of flight, Whom I esteem the strongest Greek; for we have never fled Achilles, that is prince of men, and whom a Goddess bred, Like him; his fury flies so high, and all men’s wraths commands.”