_Æn._ O th'inchaunting words of that base slaue, Made him to thinke _Epeus_ pine-tree Horse A sacrifize t'appease _Mineruas_ wrath: The rather for that one _Laocoon_ Breaking a speare vpon his hollow breast, Was with two winged Serpents stung to death. Whereat agast, we were commanded straight With reuerence to draw it into _Troy_. In which vnhappie worke was I employd, These hands did helpe to hale it to the gates, Through which it could not enter twas so huge. O had it neuer entred, _Troy_ had stood. But _Priamus_ impatient of delay, Inforst a wide breach in that rampierd wall, Which thousand battering Rams could neuer pierce, And so came in this fatall instrument: At whose accursed feete as ouerioyed, We banquetted till ouercome with wine, Some surfetted, and others soundly slept. Which _Sinon_ viewing, causde the Greekish spyes To hast to _Tenedos_ and tell the Campe: Then he vnlockt the Horse, and suddenly From out his entrailes, _Neoptolemus_ Setting his speare vpon the ground, leapt forth, And after him a thousand Grecians more, In whose sterne faces shin'd the quenchles fire, That after burnt the pride of _Asia_. By this the Campe was come vnto the walles, And through the breach did march into the streetes, Where meeting with the rest, kill kill they cryed. Frighted with this confused noyse, I rose, And looking from a turret, might behold Yong infants swimming in their parents bloud, Headles carkasses piled vp in heapes, Virgins halfe dead dragged by their golden haire, And with maine force flung on a ring of pikes, Old men with swords thrust through their aged sides, Kneeling for mercie to a Greekish lad, Who with steele Pol-axes dasht out their braines. Then buckled I mine armour, drew my sword, And thinking to goe downe, came _Hectors_ ghost With ashie visage, blewish, sulphure eyes, His armes torne from his shoulders, and his breast Furrowd with wounds, and that which made me weepe, Thongs at his heeles, by which _Achilles_ horse Drew him in triumph through the Greekish Campe, Burst from the earth, crying, _Æneas_ flye, _Troy_ is a fire, the Grecians haue the towne, _Dido._ O _Hector_ who weepes not to heare thy name? _Æn._ Yet flung I forth, and desperate of my life, Ran in the thickest throngs, and with this sword Sent many of their sauadge ghosts to hell. At last came _Pirrhus_ fell and full of ire. His harnesse dropping bloud, and on his speare The mangled head of _Priams_ yongest sonne, And after him his band of Mirmidons, With balles of wilde fire in their murdering pawes, Which made the funerall flame that burnt faire _Troy_: All which hemd me about, crying, this is he. _Dido._ Ah, how could poore _Æneas_ scape their hands?