“Great king of nations! (Ithacus replied) Fix’d is his wrath, unconquer’d is his pride; He slights thy friendship, thy proposals scorns, And, thus implored, with fiercer fury burns. To save our army, and our fleets to free, Is not his care; but left to Greece and thee. Your eyes shall view, when morning paints the sky, Beneath his oars the whitening billows fly; Us too he bids our oars and sails employ, Nor hope the fall of heaven-protected Troy; For Jove o’ershades her with his arm divine, Inspires her war, and bids her glory shine. Such was his word: what further he declared, These sacred heralds and great Ajax heard. But Phœnix in his tent the chief retains, Safe to transport him to his native plains When morning dawns; if other he decree, His age is sacred, and his choice is free.”