His friend whom thou hadst slain—yet still he slept.

But thou, the freshness of a fragrant flower

New-gather'd hold'st, and more resemblest far

Some youth whom Phœbus with his gentle shafts

Hath pierced at home, than one in battle slain.

So spake the queen, exciting in all hearts

Sorrow immeasurable.

(Helen takes up the lament.)

Hector! far dearest of my brothers here!

Me godlike Paris to the shores of Troy