Not — whosoever was the great of yore, Bursting to bloom with bravery all round — Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more. And who it was that after came to be, Met the thrice-throwing wrestler, — he Is also gone to ground. But Zeus — if any, heart and soul, that name — Shouting the triumph-praise — proclaim, Complete in judgment shall that man be found.
 Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise, Appoints that suffering masterfully teach. In sleep, before the heart of each, A woe-remembering travail sheds in dew Discretion, — ay, and melts the unwilling too By what, perchance, may be a graciousness Of gods, enforced no less, — As they, commanders of the crew, Assume the awful seat.
 And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet, Disparaging no seer — With bated breath to suit misfortune’s inrush here — (What time it laboured, that Achaian host, By stay from sailing, — every pulse at length Emptied of vital strength, — Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crost In Aulis station, — while the winds which post
 From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught, Tempters of man to sail where harbourage is naught, Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning time To twice the length, — these carded, by delay,