Page 2317 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy,
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,

Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; [1370]
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets bow’d.

A thousand lamentable objects there,

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life:
Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear, [1375]
Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife;
The red blood reek’d to show the painter’s strife,
And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioner [1380]
Begrim’d with sweat and smeared all with dust;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:
Such sweet observance in this work was had, [1385]
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty

You might behold, triumphing in their faces,
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces [1390]
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,

Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art
Of physiognomy might one behold! [1395]
The face of either cipher’d either’s heart;

Their face their manners most expressly told.
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d,