Pope’s Iliad, III, 205-210
The impotent old men, gumming their mush
High on the wall and safe from any harms
The Greeks might bear, gape but raise no alarms
When she comes forth, only a reverent hush
In which flesh is remembered. Then a rush
Of cries—No wonder, such celestial charms
For nine long years have set the world in arms!—
Brings to her throat the faintest tinge of blush.
Far below, Alexandros, Prince of Troy,
Trembles, facing his fire-maned Spartan foe,
And thinks to himself then, if he thinks at all
When he looks back and upward at his joy,
How beautiful a thing she is—but so
Remote at such great height, so pale, so small.