This Trojan scorns us
This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy
Are ceremonious courtiers.
Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarmed,
As bending angels—that's their fame in peace.
But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls,
Good arms, strong joints, true swords, and—great Jove's accord—
Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas.
Peace, Trojan. Lay thy finger on thy lips.
The worthiness of praise distains his worth
If that the praised himself bring the praise forth.
But what the repining enemy commends,
That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends.