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54

How bright the face of heaven, and how sweet

The air this day, that layeth at my feet

The woman that I Nay: 'twas not for her

I came. 'Twas for the man, the cozener

And thief, that ate with me and stole away

My bride. But Paris lieth, this long day,

By God's grace, under the horse-hoofs of the Greek,

And round him all his land. And now I seek

Curse her! I scarce can speak the name she bears,

That was my wife. Here with the prisoners

They keep her, in these huts, among the hordes

Of numbered slaves.—The host whose labouring swords

Won her, have given her up to me, to fill

My pleasure; perchance kill her, or not kill,

But lead her home.—Methinks I have foregone

The slaying of Helen here in Ilion

Over the long seas I will bear her back,

And there, there, cast her out to whatso wrack

Of angry death they may devise, who know

Their dearest dead for her in Ilion.—Ho!

Ye soldiers! Up into the chambers where

She croucheth! Grip the long blood-reeking hair,

And drag her to mine eyes [Controlling himself.

And when there come

Fair breezes, my long ships shall bear her home.

Thou deep Base of the World, and thou high Throne

Above the World, whoe'er thou art, unknown