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vv. 559–586. Our quarters close beneath the enemy's wall;

And rain—and from the ground the river dew—

Wet, always wet! Into our clothes it grew,

Plague-like, and bred foul beasts in every hair.

Would I could tell how ghastly midwinter

Stole down from Ida till the birds dropped dead!

Or the still heat, when on his noonday bed

The breathless blue sea sank without a wave!

Why think of it? They are past and in the grave,

All those long troubles. For I think the slain

Care little if they sleep or rise again;

And we, the living, wherefore should we ache

With counting all our lost ones, till we wake

The old malignant fortunes? If Good-bye

Comes from their side. Why, let them go, say I.

Surely for us, who live, good doth prevail

Unchallenged, with no wavering of the scale;

Wherefore we vaunt unto these shining skies,

As wide o'er sea and land our glory flies:

"By men of Argolis who conquered Troy,

These spoils, a memory and an ancient joy,

Are nailed in the gods' houses throughout Greece."

Which whoso readeth shall with praise increase

Our land, our kings, and God's grace manifold

Which made these marvels be.—My tale is told.

Indeed thou conquerest me. Men say, the light

In old men's eyes yet serves to learn aright.

But Clytemnestra and the House should hear

These tidings first, though I their health may share.