II
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o far the poet. How should he beholdThat journey home, the long connubial years?He does not tell you how white Helen bearsChild on legitimate child, becomes a scold,Haggard with virtue. Menelaus boldWaxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voiceGot shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old. Often he wonders why on earth he wentTroyward, or why poor Paris ever came.Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;And Paris slept on by Scamander side.
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