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Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antic Sword, Rebellious to his Arm, lies where it falls Repugnant to command: unequal match, Pyrrhus it Priam drives, in Rage strikes wide: But with the whiff and wind of his fell Sword, the vnnerued Father falls. Then senseless Illium, Seeming to feel his blow, with flaming top Stoops to his Base, and with a hideous crash Takes Prisoner Pyrrhus ear. For lo, his Sword Which was declining on the Milky head Of Reverend Priam, seemed in the Air to stieke: So as a painted Tyrant Pyrrhus stood, And Like a Newtrall to his will and matter, did nothing. But as we often see against some storm, A silence in the Heavens, the Rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the Orb below As hush as death: Anon the dreadful Thunder Does rend the Region. So after Pyrrhus pause, A roused Vengeance sets him new awork, And never did the Cyclops hammers fallen On Mars his Armours, forged for proof Eterne, With less remorse then Pyrrhus bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou Strumpet-Fortune, all you Gods, In general Synod take away her power: Break all the Spokes and Fallies from her wheel, And boul the round Nave down the hill of Heaven, As low as to the Fiends. But who, Oh who, had seen the inobled Queen. Run barefoot up and down, Threatening the flame With Bisson Rheum: A clout about that head, Where late the Diadem stood, and for a Robe About her lank and all ore-teamed Lomes, A blanket in the Alarm of fear caught up. Who this had seen, with tongue in Venom steeped, against Fortune's State, would Treason have pronounced? But if the Gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his Sword her Husbands limbs, The instant Burst of Clamour that she made (Unless things mortal move them not at all) Would have made milche the Burning eyes of Heaven, And passion in the Gods. What speech, my Lord? I my Lord. I my Lord. I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, Sir. I warrant your Honour.