Favours of mistresses he saw him wear; For past all doubt his beauties had no peer Of all that mine eyes noted, next to one, And that was Memnon, Tithon’s Sun-like son. Thus far, for fight in public, may a taste Give of his eminence. How far surpast His spirit in private, where he was not seen, Nor glory could be said to praise his spleen, This close note I excerpted. When we sat Hid in Epëus’ horse, no optimate Of all the Greeks there had the charge to ope And shut the stratagem but I.[9] My scope To note then each man’s spirit in a strait Of so much danger, much the better might Be hit by me, than others, as, provok’d, I shifted place still, when, in some I smok’d Both privy tremblings, and close vent of tears, In him yet not a soft conceit of theirs Could all my search see, either his wet eyes Ply’d still with wipings, or the goodly guise, His person all ways put forth, in least part, By any tremblings, show’d his touch’d-at heart. But ever he was urging me to make Way to their sally, by his sign to shake His sword hid in his scabbard, or his lance Loaded with iron, at me. No good chance His thoughts to Troy intended. In th’ event, High Troy depopulate, he made ascent To his fair ship, with prise and treasure store, Safe, and no touch away with him he bore Of far-off-hurl’d lance, or of close-fought sword, Whose wounds for favours war doth oft afford, Which he (though sought) miss’d in war’s closest wage. _In close fights Mars doth never fight, but rage.’_ This made the soul of swift Achilles tread A march of glory through the herby mead, For joy to hear me so renown his son; And vanish’d stalking. But with passión Stood th’ other souls struck, and each told his bane. Only the spirit Telamonian[10] Kept far off, angry for the victory I won from him at fleet; though arbitry Of all a court of war pronounc’d it mine, And Pallas’ self. Our prise were th’ arms divine Of great Æacides, proposd t’ our fames By his bright Mother, at his funeral games. I wish to heav’n I ought not to have won; Since for those arms so high a head so soon The base earth cover’d, Ajax, that of all The host of Greece had person capital, And acts as eminent, excepting his Whose arms those were, in whom was nought amiss. I tried the great soul with soft words, and said: ‘Ajax! Great son of Telamon, array’d In all our glories! What! not dead resign Thy wrath for those curst arms? The Pow’rs divine In them forg’d all our banes, in thine own one, In thy grave fall our tower was overthrown. We mourn, for ever maim’d, for thee as much As for Achilles; nor thy wrong doth touch, In sentence, any but Saturnius’ doom; In whose hate was the host of Greece become A very horror; who express’d it well In signing thy fate with this timeless hell. Approach then, king of all the Grecian merit, Repress thy great mind and thy flamy spirit, And give the words I give thee worthy ear.’ All this no word drew from him, but less near The stern soul kept; to other souls he fled,