Then hurl’d the hero, thundering on the ground, A mass of iron (an enormous round), Whose weight and size the circling Greeks admire, Rude from the furnace, and but shaped by fire. This mighty quoit Aëtion wont to rear, And from his whirling arm dismiss in air; The giant by Achilles slain, he stow’d Among his spoils this memorable load. For this, he bids those nervous artists vie, That teach the disk to sound along the sky. “Let him, whose might can hurl this bowl, arise; Who farthest hurls it, take it as his prize; If he be one enrich’d with large domain Of downs for flocks, and arable for grain, Small stock of iron needs that man provide; His hinds and swains whole years shall be supplied From hence; nor ask the neighbouring city’s aid For ploughshares, wheels, and all the rural trade.”