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All through the night they kindle flaming brands:

Yea, and methinks they will not wait the morn,

But, burning torches on the fair-benched ships,

In homeward flight will get them from this land.

And thou, with what intent dost arm thine hand?

Even as they flee, and leap upon their decks,

My spear shall stay them and mine onset crush.

Shameful it were, and dastardly withal,

When God to us gives unresisting foes,

After such mischiefs wrought to let them flee.

Would that thy prudence matched thy might of hand!

So is it: one man cannot be all-wise,

But diverse gifts to diverse men belong—

Prowess to thee, to others prudent counsel.

Thou hear'st of these fire-beacons, leap'st to think

The Achaians flee, dost pant to lead thine host

Over the trenches in the hush of night.

Yet if, the foss's yawning chasm crossed,

Thou find the foemen not in act to flee

The land, but set to face thy spear, beware

Lest, vanquished, thou return not unto Troy.

How shall we pass in rout their palisades?

How shall thy charioteers the causeways cross

And shatter not the axles of the cars?

Though victor, thou must still meet Peleus' son,