Thy tents are crowded and thy chests o'erflow. Thus at full ease in heaps of riches roll'd, What grieves the monarch? Is it thirst of gold? Say, shall we march with our unconquer'd powers (The Greeks and I) to Ilion's hostile towers, And bring the race of royal bastards here, For Troy to ransom at a price too dear? But safer plunder thy own host supplies; Say, wouldst thou seize some valiant leader's prize? Or, if thy heart to generous love be led, Some captive fair, to bless thy kingly bed? Whate'er our master craves submit we must, Plagued with his pride, or punish'd for his lust. Oh women of Achaia; men no more! Hence let us fly, and let him waste his store In loves and pleasures on the Phrygian shore. We may be wanted on some busy day, When Hector comes: so great Achilles may: From him he forced the prize we jointly gave, From him, the fierce, the fearless, and the brave: And durst he, as he ought, resent that wrong, This mighty tyrant were no tyrant long." Fierce from his seat at this Ulysses springs,(87) In generous vengeance of the king of kings. With indignation sparkling in his eyes, He views the wretch, and sternly thus replies: "Peace, factious monster, born to vex the state, With wrangling talents form'd for foul debate: Curb that impetuous tongue, nor rashly vain, And singly mad, asperse the sovereign reign. Have we not known thee, slave! of all our host, The man who acts the least, upbraids the most? Think not the Greeks to shameful flight to bring, Nor let those lips profane the name of king. For our return we trust the heavenly powers; Be that their care; to fight like men be ours. But grant the host with wealth the general load, Except detraction, what hast thou bestow'd? Suppose some hero should his spoils resign, Art thou that hero, could those spoils be thine? Gods! let me perish on this hateful shore, And let these eyes behold my son no more; If, on thy next