And were there but this woman in the world,
To miss her could but vex me as it doth.
But others be there, and my grief is other.
For that we came in strength so far behind
The great Ulysses, that we could not string
His bow, will ring our shame in ears unborn.
Ant. That will not be, Eurymachus,—and thou know’st it.
This is Apollo’s feast, and on such day
Who should presume in archery? Sit down;
And let the bow and other gear abide.