Apollo bows to the superior throne; And to his uncle's anger, adds his own. Then in a cloud involv'd, he takes his flight, Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal fight; And found out Paris, lurking where he stood, And stain'd his arrows with plebeian blood: Phoebus to him alone the God confess'd, Then to the recreant knight, he thus address'd. Dost thou not blush, to spend thy shafts in vain On a degenerate, and ignoble train? If fame, or better vengeance be thy care, There aim: and, with one arrow, end the war.
Dashboard
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Intel Profile
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