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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:
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