Rot, and our men grow stale. Why, you may see
Imperial Agamemnon in the eyes
Of all his armament walk daily forth
To take fresh note of sparrows and of snakes:
And if he spy an eagle, ’twill make talk
For twenty days. Would you have oracles,
Give me the whipping of the priests. Zeus help me!
If half the chiefs knew but their minds as I,
There’d be no parleying. I’ll to war alone
And with my eighty ships do what I may