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'Anon he finds himStriking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,Repugnant to command: unequal match'd,Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;But with the whiff and wind of his fell swordThe unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming topStoops to his base, and with a hideous crashTakes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear: for, lo! his sword,Which was declining on the milky headOf reverend Priam, seem'd i' the air to stick:So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,And like a neutral 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 belowAs hush as death, anon the dreadful thunderDoth rend the region, so, after Pyrrhus' pause,Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work;And never did the Cyclops' hammers fallOn Mars's armour forged for proof eterneWith less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding swordNow falls on Priam.Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods,In general synod 'take away her power;Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven,As low as to the fiends!'