And so you think that Ares’ self looks on
And with a shudder marks your every blow.
Gyges, had every prize that’s offered there
Been won by you, still were I forced to warn you
Avoid the lists e’en for the lowest guerdon.
We’ve ever set a wild and bloody pace;
But even a single twig of silver poplar,
Such as to-day are in their thousands strown,
Ventured by you, a Greek and in my graces,
Would ne’er allow you scapement of your life.