No — said someone —The gods think fit to careNowise for mortals, suchAs those by whom the good and fairOf things denied their touchIs trampled! but he was profane.That they do care, has been made plainTo offspring of the over-bold,Outbreathing Ares greater than is just —Houses that spill with more than they can hold,More than is best for man. Be man’s what mustKeep harm off, so that in himself he findSufficiency — the well-endowed of mind!For there’s no bulwark in man’s wealth to himWho, through a surfeit, kicks — into the dimAnd disappearing — Right’s great altar. Yes —It urges him, the sad persuasiveness,Até’s insufferable child that schemesTreason beforehand: and all cure is vain.It is not hidden: out it glares again,A light dread-lamping-mischief, just as gleamsThe badness of the bronze;Through rubbing, puttings to the touch,Black-clotted is he, judged at once.He seeks — the boy — a flying bird to clutch,The insufferable brandSetting upon the city of his landWhereof not any god hears prayer;While him who brought about such evils there,