at the same time.  The Trojans make
                       the Greeks retire, and TROILUS makes DIOMEDE
                       give ground, and hurts him.  Trumpets
                       sound. ACHILLES enters with his Myrmidons,
                       on the backs of the Trojans, who fight in a
                       ring, encompassed round. TROILUS, singling
                       DIOMEDE, gets him down, and kills him; and
                       ACHILLES kills TROILUS upon him.  All the
                       Trojans die upon the place, TROILUS last.

Enter AGAMEMNON, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, AJAX, and
Attendants.

Achil. Our toils are done, and those aspiring walls, The work of gods, and almost mating heaven, Must crumble into rubbish on the plain.

Agam. When mighty Hector fell beneath thy sword,
Their old foundations shook; their nodding towers
Threatened from high the amazed inhabitants;
And guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes.

Achil. Patroclus, now be quiet; Hector’s dead;
And, as a second offering to thy ghost,
Lies Troilus high upon a heap of slain;
And noble Diomede beneath, whose death
This hand of mine revenged.

Ajax. Revenged it basely: 
For Troilus fell by multitudes opprest,
And so fell Hector; but ’tis vain to talk.

Ulys. Hail, Agamemnon! truly victor now! 
While secret envy, and while open pride,
Among thy factious nobles discord threw;
While public good was urged for private ends,
And those thought patriots, who disturbed it most;
Then, like the headstrong horses of the sun,
That light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it: 
Now peaceful order has resumed the reins,
Old Time looks young, and Nature seems renewed. 
  Then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs,
  Let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THERSITES.

  These cruel critics put me into passion;
  For, in their lowering looks I read damnation: 
  You expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
  When I’m first beaten, ’tis my part to rail. 
  You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
  That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock,
  Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
  When women’s cullies come to judge of wit. 
  As we strew rat’s-bane when we vermin fear,
  ’Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
  And, after all our judging fops were served,
  Dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved;
  Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming,
  Write on, and ne’er are satisfied with damning: 
  Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong,
  Such whose vocation only is—­to song;
  At most to prologue, when, for want of