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Hast eyes, and seest not this? Peace—kick not thus

Against the pricks, unto thy proper pain!

Woman, home-watcher for thy lord who came

But now from war, didst thou his couch defile

And for the chief himself devise this doom?

Bold words again! but they shall end in tears.

The very converse, thine, of Orpheus' tongue:

He roused and led in ecstasy of joy

All things that heard his voice melodious;

But thou as with the futile cry of curs

Wilt draw men wrathfully upon thee. Peace!

Or strong subjection soon shall tame thy tongue.

Ay, thou art one to hold an Argive down,

Thou, skilled to plan the murder of the king,

But not with thine own hand to smite the blow!

That fraudful force was woman's very part,

Not mine, whom deep suspicion from of old

Would have debarred. Now by his treasure's aid

My purpose holds to rule the citizens.

But whoso will not bear my guiding hand,

Him for his corn-fed mettle I will drive

Not as a trace-horse, light-caparisoned,

But to the shafts with heaviest harness bound.

Famine, the grim mate of the dungeon dark,

Shall look on him and shall behold him tame.