Yet many a prince of south lands, or of east,
For dark Cassandra's love came trooping in,
And Priam made them merry at the feast,
And all night long they dream'd of wars to win,
And with the morning hurl'd into the din,
And cried their lady's name for battle-cry,
And won no more than this: for Paris' sin,
By Diomede's or Aias' hand to die.
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