In safety, ay—and piteous poverty!
Since the host's visage for the flying friend
Has, only one day, the sweet look, 'tis said.
Dare with us death, which waits thee, dared or no!
We call on thine ancestral worth, old man!
For who out-labors what the gods appoint
Shows energy, but energy gone mad.
Since what must—none e'er makes what must not be!
Cho. Had any one, while yet my arms were strong,
Been scorning thee, he easily had ceased.