Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers’ woes, (Who though so many, and so good, must all be food for foes) As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence, These free days clouded, and a night of captive violence Loading thy temples, out of which thine eyes must never see, But spin the Greek wives’ webs of task, and their fetch water be To Argos, from Messeides, or clear Hyperia’s spring;[6] Which howsoever thou abhorr’st, Fate’s such a shrewish thing She will be mistress; whose curs’d hands, when they shall crush out cries From thy oppressions (being beheld by other enemies) Thus they will nourish thy extremes: ‘This dame was Hector’s wife, A man that, at the wars of Troy, did breathe the worthiest life Of all their army.’ This again will rub thy fruitful wounds, To miss the man that to thy bands could give such narrow bounds. But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the solid heap of night Shall interpose, and stop mine ears against thy plaints, and plight.” This said, he reach’d to take his son; who, of his arms afraid, And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid, Nodded so horribly, he cling’d back to his nurse, and cried. Laughter affected his great sire, who doff’d, and laid aside His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light; Then took and kiss’d his loving son, and (balancing his weight In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he us’d And all the other bench of Gods: “O you that have infus’d Soul to this infant, now set down this blessing on his star;— Let his renown be clear as mine; equal his strength in war; And make his reign so strong in Troy, that years to come may yield His facts this fame, when, rich in spoils, he leaves the conquer’d field Sown with his slaughters: ‘These high deeds exceed his father’s worth.’ And let this echo’d praise supply the comforts to come forth Of his kind mother with my life.” This said, th’ heroic sire Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes fresh streams of love’s salt fire Billow’d on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of Hector’s speech, In which his vows compris’d the sum of all he did beseech In her wish’d comfort. So she took into her od’rous breast Her husband’s gift; who, mov’d to see her heart so much oppress’d, He dried her tears, and thus desir’d: “Afflict me not, dear wife, With these vain griefs. He doth not live, that can disjoin my life And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate, whose wings can fly? Noble, ignoble, fate controls. Once born, the best must die, Go home, and set thy housewif’ry on these extremes of thought; And drive war from them with thy maids; keep them from doing nought. These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to men, and me In whom, of all the Ilion race, they take their high’st degree.” On went his helm; his princess home, half cold with kindly fears; When ev’ry fear turn’d back her looks, and ev’ry look shed tears. Foe-slaught’ring Hector’s house soon reach’d, her many women there