There th' hapless queen amongst an hundred dames, 488 And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames Which his own hands had on the altar laid;

Then they the secret cabinets invade,

Where stood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopes
Of that great race; the golden posts, whose tops
Old hostile spoils adorn'd, demolish'd lay,
Or to the foe, or to the fire a prey.
Now Priam's fate perhaps you may inquire:
Seeing his empire lost, his Troy on fire,
And his own palace by the Greeks possess'd,
Arms long disused his trembling limbs invest;
Thus on his foes he throws himself alone,
Not for their fate, but to provoke his own:
There stood an altar open to the view
Of heaven, near which an aged laurel grew,
Whose shady arms the household gods embraced,
Before whose feet the queen herself had cast
With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives,
As doves whom an approaching tempest drives
And frights into one flock; but having spied
Old Priam clad in youthful arms, she cried,
'Alas! my wretched husband! what pretence
To bear those arms? and in them what defence?
Such aid such times require not, when again
If Hector were alive, he lived in vain;

Or here we shall a sanctuary find,

Or as in life, we shall in death be join'd.'

Then, weeping, with kind force held and embraced,
And on the secret seat the king she placed.

Meanwhile Polites, one of Priam's sons,
Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs

Through foes and swords, and ranges all the court
And empty galleries, amazed and hurt;

500

510

520

Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills,
And his last blood in Priam's presence spills.
The king (though him so many deaths enclose)
Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows;
The gods requite thee (if within the care
Of those above th' affairs of mortals are),
Whose fury on the son but lost had been,
Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen:
Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be
Thy father) so inhuman was to me;

He blush'd, when I the rights of arms implored;
To me my Hector, me to Troy, restored.'
This said, his feeble arm a jav'lin flung,

Which on the sounding shield, scarce ent'ring, rung.
Then Pyrrhus; 'Go a messenger to hell
Of my black deeds, and to my father tell
The acts of his degen'rate race.' So through
His son's warm blood the trembling king he drew
To th' altar; in his hair one hand he wreathes;
His sword the other in his bosom sheaths.
Thus fell the king, who yet surviv'd the state,
With such a signal and peculiar fate,

Under so vast a ruin, not a grave,

Nor in such flames a fun'ral fire to have:

He whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, To whom the sceptres of all Asia bow'd,

On the cold earth lies th' unregarded king,

A headless carcase, and a nameless thing.

522

530

540

ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S TRIAL
AND DEATH.

GREAT Strafford! worthy of that name, though all
Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall,
Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight,
Which too much merit did accumulate.

As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw,
Pretexts are into treason forged by law.
His wisdom such, at once it did appear

Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear;
Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although
Each had an army, as an equal foe.

Such was his force of eloquence, to make
The hearers more concern'd than he that spake;
Each seem'd to act that part he came to see,
And none was more a looker-on than he;
So did he move our passions, some were known
To wish, for the defence, the crime their own.

Now private pity strove with public hate,

Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate:
Now they could him, if he could them, forgive;

He's not too guilty, but too wise, to live;

Less seem those facts which treason's nickname bore,

Than such a fear'd ability for more.

They after death their fears of him express,

His innocence and their own guilt confess.
Their legislative frenzy they repent,

Enacting it should make no precedent.

This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose
Honour for life, but rather nobly chose
Death from their fears, than safety from his own,

That his last action all the rest might crown.

ON MY LORD CROFT'S AND MY JOURNEY INTO POLAND,

FROM WHENCE WE BROUGHT £10,000 FOR HIS MAJESTY, BY THE DECIMATION OF HIS SCOTTISH SUBJECTS THERE.

1 Toll, toll,

Gentle bell, for the soul

Of the pure ones in Pole,

Which are damn'd in our scroll.

2 Who having felt a touch
Of Cockram's greedy clutch,
Which though it was not much,
Yet their stubbornness was such,

3 That when we did arrive,

'Gainst the stream we did strive;
They would neither lead nor drive;

4 Nor lend

An ear to a friend,

Nor an answer would send

To our letter so well penn'd;

5 Nor assist our affairs

With their moneys nor their wares,
As their answer now declares,
But only with their prayers.

6 Thus they did persist

Did and said what they list,
"Till the Diet was dismiss'd;
But then our breech they kiss'd.

7 For when

It was moved there and then,
They should pay one in ten,
The Diet said, Amen.

8 And because they are loth
To discover the troth,

They must give word and oath,
Though they will forfeit both.

9 Thus the constitution

Condemns them every one,
From the father to the son.

10 But John

(Our friend) Mollesson

Thought us to have outgone
With a quaint invention.

11 Like the prophets of yore,
He complain'd long before,
Of the mischiefs in store,
Ay, and thrice as much more;

12 And with that wicked lie, A letter they came by From our King's majesty.

13 But fate

Brought the letter too late,
"Twas of too old a date

To relieve their damn'd state.