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 In savage raillery against us, unpunished?

'Tis you I mean, the captive woman's son.

Verily of well-born mother had you been bred,

Superb had been your boasts and high your strut,

Since you, being nought, have championed one who is nought,

Vowing that no authority is ours

By sea or land to rule the Greeks or you.

Are not these monstrous taunts to hear from slaves?

What was this man whose praise you vaunt so loudly?

Whither went he, or where stood he, where I was not?

Among the Greeks are there no men but he?

In evil hour, it seems, did we proclaim

The contest for Achilles' panoply,

If come what may Teucer is to call us knaves,

And if you never will consent, though worsted,

To accept the award that seemed just to most judges,

But either must keep pelting us with foul words,

Or stab us craftily in your rage at losing.

Where such discords are customary, never

Could any law be stablished and maintained,

If we should thrust the rightful winners by,

And bring the rearmost to the foremost place.

But such wrong must be checked. 'Tis not the big

Broad-shouldered men on whom we most rely;

No, 'tis the wise who are masters everywhere.

An ox, however large of rib, may yet

Be kept straight on the road by a little whip.

And this corrective, I perceive, will soon

Descend on you, unless you acquire some wisdom,

Who, though this man is dead, a mere shade now,

Can wag your insolent lips so freely and boldly.

Come to your senses: think what you are by birth.

Bring hither some one else, a man born free,

Who in your stead may plead your cause before us.

For when you speak, the sense escapes me quite:

I comprehend not your barbarian tongue.