XVII.

Thus strove Peleides with the King of Men For fair Briseïs many a stubborn hour, And hung War’s chances on the wistful ken Of her ’mongst all Lyrnessian spoil the flower, Whose charms drew eyes from Ilion’s loftiest tower. Thus to Achilles’ arms the maid restored Was stript o’ the robes that swept Atrides’ bower, And decked anew in livery of her lord, To show no tyrant folds should float o’er his adored.