Even such was the child of Zeus, and the soft down bloomed on his chin,
And bright were his dancing eyes: but waxed his breast within
His fury and might like a wild beast’s rage; and he struck out fast
With his hands, making trial if swift were their play, as in days overpast,
Uncramped by the stress of toil and the strain of the weary oar.
But Amykus proved not his limbs, but he glared on his foe evermore
Standing in silence aloof, and he yearned in eager mood
To smite and bespatter the hero’s breast with the spurting blood. {50}
And between them Lykôreus, Amykus’ henchman, cast on the ground
In front of their feet the fighting-gauntlets with thongs overbound,