Against him, for the foil he took in their cause; and again, For all their gen’ral foils in his. So Hector seems to plain Of his wrath to them, for their hate, and not his cowardice;[4] As that were it that shelter’d him in his effeminacies, And kept him, in that dang’rous time, from their fit aid in fight; For which he chid thus: “Wretched man! So timeless is thy spite That ’tis not honest; and their hate is just, ’gainst which it bends. War burns about the town for thee; for thee our slaughter’d friends Besiege Troy with their carcasses, on whose heaps our high walls Are overlook’d by enemies; the sad sounds of their falls Without, are echo’d with the cries of wives and babes within; And all for thee; and yet for them thy honour cannot win Head of thine anger. Thou shouldst need no spirit to stir up thine, But thine should set the rest on fire, and with a rage divine Chastise impartially the best, that impiously forbears. Come forth, lest thy fair tow’rs and Troy be burn’d about thine ears.” Paris acknowledg’d, as before, all just that Hector spake, Allowing justice, though it were for his injustice’ sake; And where his brother put a wrath upon him by his art, He takes it, for his honour’s sake, as sprung out of his heart, And rather would have anger seem his fault than cowardice; And thus he answer’d: “Since, with right, you join’d check with advice, And I hear you, give equal ear: It is not any spleen Against the town, as you conceive, that makes me so unseen, But sorrow for it; which to ease, and by discourse digest Within myself, I live so close; and yet, since men might wrest My sad retreat, like you, my wife with her advice inclin’d This my addression to the field; which was mine own free mind, As well as th’ instance of her words; for though the foil were mine, Conquest brings forth her wreaths by turns. Stay then this haste of thine But till I arm, and I am made a cónsort for thee straight;— Or go, I’ll overtake thy haste.” Helen stood at receipt, And took up all great Hector’s pow’rs, t’ attend her heavy words, By which had Paris no reply. This vent her grief affords: “Brother (if I may call you so, that had been better born A dog, than such a horrid dame, as all men curse and scorn, A mischief-maker, a man-plague) O would to God, the day, That first gave light to me, had been a whirlwind in my way, And borne me to some desert hill, or hid me in the rage Of earth’s most far-resounding seas, ere I should thus engage The dear lives of so many friends! Yet since the Gods have been Helpless foreseers of my plagues, they might have likewise seen That he they put in yoke with me, to bear out their award, Had been a man of much more spirit, and, or had noblier dar’d To shield mine honour with this deed, or with his mind had known Much better the upbraids of men, that so he might have shown (More like a man) some sense of grief for both my shame and his. But he is senseless, nor conceives what any manhood is,