My king, what cometh? There appearsSome Spirit, like a mist of tears;And in her arms a man lieth,So young, so wearied unto death;To see such vision presagethWrath and great weeping.The Guards hide their heads in their mantles.MUSE.Nay, look your fill, ye Trojans. It is I,The many-sistered Muse, of worship highIn wise men’s hearts, who come to mourn mine ownMost pitifully loved, most injured, son,