Who, fed on pois’nous herbs, all winter lay
Under the ground, and now reviews the day,
Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young, 460
Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue,
And lifts his scaly breast against the sun;
With him his father’s squire, Automedon,
And Peripas who drove his winged steeds,
Enter the court; whom all the youth succeeds
Of Scyros’ isle, who naming firebrands flung
Up to the roof; Pyrrhus himself among
The foremost with an axe an entrance hews
Through beams of solid oak, then freely views
The chambers, galleries, and rooms of state, 470
Where Priam and the ancient monarchs sate. 
At the first gate an armed guard appears;
But th’inner court with horror, noise and tears,
Confus’dly fill’d, the women’s shrieks and cries
The arched vaults re-echo to the skies;
Sad matrons wand’ring through the spacious rooms
Embrace and kiss the posts; then Pyrrhus comes;
Full of his father, neither men nor walls
His force sustain; the torn portcullis falls;
Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce, 480
And where the way they cannot find, they force. 
Not with such rage a swelling torrent flows
Above his banks, th’opposing dams o’erthrows,
Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep,
Shepherds and folds, the foaming surges sweep. 
And now between two sad extremes I stood,
Here Pyrrhus and th’Atridae drunk with blood,
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, demolished 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, 500
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 510
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,