His Memories

We should be hidden from their eyes，

Being but holy shows

And bodies broken like a thorn

Whereon the bleak north blows，

To think of buried Hector

And that none living knows.

The women take so little stock

In what I do or say

They‘d sooner leave their cosseting

To hear a jackass bray；

My arms are like the twisted thorn

And yet there beauty lay；

The first of all the tribe lay there

And did such pleasure take—

She who had brought great Hector down

And put all Troy to wreck—

That she cried into this ear，

‘Strike me if I shriek.’