“Say, if large hire can tempt thee to employ

Those hands in work; to tend the rural trade,

To dress the walk, and form the embowering shade.

So food and raiment constant will I give:

But idly thus thy soul prefers to live,

And starve by strolling, not by work to thrive.”


To whom incensed: “Should we, O prince, engage

In rival tasks beneath the burning rage

Of summer suns; were both constrain’d to wield

Foodless the scythe along the burden’d field;

Or should we labour while the ploughshare wounds,

With steers of equal strength, the allotted grounds,

Beneath my labours, how thy wondering eyes

Might see the sable field at once arise!

Should Jove dire war unloose, with spear and shield,

And nodding helm, I tread the ensanguined field,

Fierce in the van: then wouldst thou, wouldst thou,—say,—

Misname me glutton, in that glorious day?

No, thy ill-judging thoughts the brave disgrace

’Tis thou injurious art, not I am base.

Proud to seem brave among a coward train!

But now, thou art not valorous, but vain.

God! should the stern Ulysses rise in might,

These gates would seem too narrow for thy flight.”


While yet he speaks, Eurymachus replies,

With indignation flashing from his eyes:


“Slave, I with justice might deserve the wrong,

Should I not punish that opprobrious tongue.

Irreverent to the great, and uncontroll’d,

Art thou from wine, or innate folly, bold?

Perhaps these outrages from Irus flow,

A worthless triumph o’er a worthless foe!”


He said, and with full force a footstool threw;

Whirl’d from his arm, with erring rage it flew:

Ulysses, cautious of the vengeful foe,

Stoops to the ground, and disappoints the blow.

Not so a youth, who deals the goblet round,

Full on his shoulder it inflicts a wound;

Dash’d from his hand the sounding goblet flies,

He shrieks, he reels, he falls, and breathless lies.

Then wild uproar and clamour mount the sky,

Till mutual thus the peers indignant cry: