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60 O world of men, farewell! A painted show

Is all thy glory; and when life is low

The touch of a wet sponge out-blotteth all.

Oh, sadder this than any proud man's fall!

[She goes into the House.

Great Fortune is an hungry thing,

And filleth no heart anywhere,

Though men with fingers menacing

Point at the great house, none will dare,

When Fortune knocks, to bar the door

Proclaiming: "Come thou here no more!"

Lo, to this man the Gods have given

Great Ilion in the dust to tread

And home return, emblazed of heaven;

If it is writ, he too shall go

Through blood for blood spilt long ago;

If he too, dying for the dead,

Should crown the deaths of alien years,

What mortal afar off, who hears,

Shall boast him Fortune's Child, and led

Above the eternal tide of tears?

[A sudden Cry from within.

Ho! Treason in the house! I am wounded: slain.

Hush! In the castle! 'Twas a cry

Of some man wounded mortally.

Ah God, another! I am stricken again.