Read it through once

_1st Play._ (L.) _Anon he finds him Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command: Unequal match'd, Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword[61] The unnerved father falls. But, as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack[62] stand still, The bold wind speechless, and the orb below As hush as death; anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; So, after Pyrrhus' pause, A roused vengeance sets him new a work; And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall On Mars's armour, forg'd for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword Now falls on Priam.-- Out, out, thou fickle Fortune!_