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      Then nothing more this Nothing says,

      But turn'd about, and went his ways.

      Up starts the king, and with his nail

      Scratch'd both his head, and back, and tail;

      And all the while his fancy's tickl'd,

      To think how Troy would soon be pickl'd.

      A silly goose! he little knew

      What surly Jove resolv'd to do;

      What shoals of sturdy knaves must tumble

      Before they could the Trojans humble.

      Down on an ancient chopping-block

      This mighty warrior clapp'd his dock

      (The block, worn out with chopping meat,

      Now made the chief a rare strong seat):

      Then don'd his shirt with Holland cuff,

      For, Frenchman-like, he lay in buff;

      Next o'er his greasy doublet threw

      A thread-bare coat that once was blue,

      But dirt and time had chang'd its hue;

      Slipp'd on his shoes, but lately cobbled,

      And to the board of council hobbled;

      But took his sword with brazen hilt,

      And wooden sceptre finely gilt.

      Now, Madam Morn popp'd up her face,

      And told 'em day came on apace;

      When Agamemnon's beadles rouse

      The Greeks to hear this joyful news.

      He long'd, like breeding wife, it seems,

      To tell his tickling, pleasing dreams.

      I' th' int'rim, trotting to the fleet,

      Old Nestor there he chanc'd to meet,

      Whose tent he borrows for that morn,

      To make a council-chamber on;

      And reason good he had, I ween,

      It kept his own apartment clean.

      Now all-hands met, he takes his time,

      And told his case in prose or rhyme:

      Friends, neighbours, and confed'rates bold,

      Attend, whilst I my tale unfold:

      As in my bed I lay last night,

      I saw an odd-look'd kind of sprite;

      It seem'd, grave Nestor, to my view,

      Just such a queer old put as you —

      'Tis fact, for all your surly look —

      And this short speech distinctly spoke:

      How canst thou, monarch, sleeping lie,

      When thou hast other fish to fry?

      O Atreus' son, thou mighty warrior,

      Whose father was a special farrier

      (Which, by the by, although 'tis true,

      Yet I'd be glad you'd tell me how

      This bushy-bearded spirit knew),

      Hast thou no thought about decorum,

      Who art the very head o' th' quorum?

      I shame myself to think I'm catching

      Thee fast asleep, instead of watching.

      Is not all Greece pinn'd on thy lap?

      Rise, and for once postpone thy nap;

      Or by some rogue it will be said,

      The chief of chiefs went drunk to bed:

      For Jove, by whom you are respected,

      Says your affairs sha'n't be neglected:

      But now on your affair he's poring,

      Whilst you lie f – ting here and snoring:

      He bids thee arm thy ragged knaves

      With cudgels, spits, and quarter-staves;

      For now the time is come, he swears,

      To pull Troy's walls about their ears:

      Nay more, he adds, the gods agree

      With Fate itself it thus shall be.

      Jove and his queen have had their quantum

      Of jaw, and such-like rantum-scantum:

      She now puts on her best behaviours,

      And they're as kind as incle-weavers.

      Then nothing more the Vision said,

      But kick'd me half way out of bed.

      This very token did, I vow,

      Convince me that the dream was true;

      For, waking soon, I found my head

      And shoulders on the floor were laid,

      Whilst my long legs kept snug in bed:

      Therefore, since Jove, with good intent,

      So rare a messenger has sent,

      We should directly, I've a notion,

      Put all our jolly boys in motion:

      But first, what think you if we settle

      A scheme to try the scarecrows' mettle,

      As with nine years they're worn to th' stumps?

      I'll feign my kingship in the dumps

      With Jove himself, and then propose

      That homeward they direct their nose.

      But take you care, if I succeed,

      To show yourselves in time of need:

      Swear you don't mind the gen'ral's clack,

      But in a hurry drive 'em back.

      He spoke, and squatting on his breech,

      Square-toes got up and made a speech:

      I think our chief would not beguile us,

      Says the old constable of Pylos.

      Had any soul though, but our leader,

      For dreams and visions been a pleader,

      I should, my boys, to say no worse,

      Have call'd him an old guzzling nurse.

      I seldom old wives' tales believe,

      Nurses invent 'em to deceive.

      But now there can be no disguise,

      For kings should scorn to tell folks lies;

      So let us e'en, with one accord,

      Resolve to take his royal word:

      For though the speech is queerish stuff,

      'Tis the king's speech, and that's enough.

      I therefore say, My buffs so stout,

      Of this same vision make no doubt;

      The tokens are so very clear,

      There can be little room for fear.

      Did not our monarch, as he said,

      Feel the Dream kick him out of bed,

      And, by his waking posture, knew

      His sense of feeling told him true?

      Then, since affairs so far are gone,

      Let's put our fighting faces on.

      He said; nor did they longer stay,

      But from the council haste away.

      The leaders bring their men along;

      They

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