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Shrink not from envy, appanage of bliss.

War is not woman's part, nor war of words.

Yet happy victors well may yield therein.

Dost crave for triumph in this petty strife?

Yield; of thy grace permit me to prevail!

Then, if thou wilt, let some one stoop to loose

Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot:

And stepping thus upon the sea's rich dye,

I pray, Let none among the gods look down

With jealous eye on me—reluctant all,

To trample thus and mar a thing of price,

Wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth.

Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid,

Lead her within, but gently: God on high

Looks graciously on him whom triumph's hour

Has made not pitiless. None willingly

Wears the slave's yoke—and she, the prize and flower

Of all we won, comes hither in my train,

Gift of the army to its chief and lord.

—Now, since in this my will bows down to thine,

I will pass in on purples to my home.