Most putrified core so fair without,

Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.

Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath:

Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!

Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set,

How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;

Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun,

To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.

I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.

Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.

So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down;

Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.

On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain

‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’

Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.

The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.

The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth

And, stickler-like, the armies separates.

My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed,

Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.

Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail;

Along the field I will the Trojan trail.