Baft. The devil take thee, coward.

Enter Hector.

[Exeunt.

Hect. Moft putrified core, so fair without!
Thy goodly armour thus hath coft thy life.
Now is my day's work done; I'll take my breath:
Reft, fword, thou haft thy fill of blood and death.

Enter Achilles and his Myrmidons.

Achil. Look, Hector, how the Sun begins to fet;
How ugly Night comes breathing at his heels:
Ev'n with the veil and darkning of the Sun,
To close the day up, Hector's life is done.

[They fall upon Hector, and kill him.
Hect. I am unarm'd, forego this vantage, Greek.
Achil. Strike, fellows, ftrike, this is the man I feek.
So, Ilion, fall thou next. Now, Troy, fink down:
Here lies thy heart, thy finews and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain,
Achilles hath the mighty Hector flain.
Hark, a retreat upon our Grecian part.
Myr. The Trojan trumpets found the like,

my Lord.

Achil. The dragon wing of night o'erfpreads the earth;

And, ftickler-like, the armies feparates.

My half-fupt fword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas'd with this dainty bit, thus goes to bed.
Come, tie his body to my horfe's tail:

Along the field I will the Trojan trail.

[Exeunt.

[Sound retreat.

Shout.

Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Neftor, Diomedes,

and the reft marching.

Aga. Hark, hark, what fhout is that?

Neft. Peace, drums.

Sol. Achilles! Achilles! Hector's flain! Achilles !
Dio. The bruit is, Hector's flain, and by Achilles.
Ajax. If it is fo, yet bragless let it it be:

Great Hector was as good a man as he.

Aga.

Το

Aga. March haftily along; let one be fent pray Achilles fee us at our Tent.

If in his death the Gods have us befriended,

Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. [Exe, Enter Æneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus.

Ene. Stand, ho! yet are we mafters of the field; Never go home, here starve we out the night.

Troi. He's dead, and at the murderer's horfe's tail
In beaftly fort dragg'd through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heav'ns, effect your rage with speed;
Sit, Gods, upon your Thrones, and smile at Troy!
I fay, at once, let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our fure deftructions on.

Ene. My Lord, you do difcomfort all the Hoft.
Troi. You understand me not, that tell me fo:
I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death,
But dare all imminence, that Gods and men
Addrefs their dangers in. Hector is gone!

Who fhall tell Priam fo? or Hecuba?

Let him, that will a fcrietch-owl ay be call'd,
Go into Troy, and fay there, Hector's dead:
That is a word will Priam turn to ftone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives;
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But march away,
Hector is dead: there is no more to say.
Stay yet, you vile abominable Tents,

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains :
Let Titan rife as early as he dare,

I'll through and through you. And thou, great-fiz'd

coward!

No fpace of earth fhall funder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee, like a wicked confcience fstill,
That mouldeth Goblins fwift as Frenzy's thoughts.
Strike a free March to Troy with comfort go:
Hope of revenge fhall hide our inward woe.

Enter

Enter Pandarus.

Pan. But hear you, hear you?

Troi. Hence, brothel-lacquey; ignominy, fhame

[Strikes him. Purfue thy life, and live ay with thy name! [Exeunt.

Pan. A goodly med'cine for my aking bones! Oh world! world! world! thus is the poor agent defpis'd : Oh, traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set at work, and how ill requited? why fhould our endeavour be fo lov'd, and the performance fo loath'd? what verse for it? what inftance for it? let me fee Full merrily the humble-bee doth fing, 'Till he hath loft his honey and his fting; But being once fubdu'd in armed tail, Sweet honey and fweet notes together fail.

Good traders in the flesh, fet this in your painted cloths→→
As many as be here of Pandar's Hall,

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's Fall;
Or if you cannot weep, yet give fome groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aking bones.
Brethren and fifters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will fhall here be made:
It should be now; but that my fear is this,
Some galled goofe of Winchester would hifs:
'Till then, I'll sweat, and feek about for eases;
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.

[Exit.

The End of the Seventh Volume.

7575