‘Full straitly, Aiêtes, within thy right art thou shutting me.
Yet this will I dare, this emprise mighty beyond all thought;
Yea, though my doom be to die: for a man may light upon nought
More dread to encounter than ruthless fate’s overmastering hand, {430}
Which hitherward also constrained me to come at a king’s command.’
So spake he, filled with despair; but the king made answer to him,
Sore troubled there as he sat, with words exceeding grim:
‘Come then to the gathering, thou who art fain this toil to essay.
But if thou shalt fear on the necks of the oxen the yoke to lay,
Or if from the deadly harvesting backward thou shrink in dismay,