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So speaks the soldier, and Eteocles replies:—

This military pride, it moves not me.

The gorgeous blazonry of arms, the crest

High waving o'er the helm, the roaring boss,

Harmless without the spear, imprint no wound.

The sable night, spangled with golden stars,

On his proud shield impressed, perchance may prove

A gloomy presage. Should the shade of night

Fall on his dying eyes, the boastful charge

May to the bearer be deemed ominous,