And keeps his prize still. Nor think I that mighty man hath won
The style of wrathful worthily; he’s soft, he’s too remiss;
Or else, Atrides, his had been thy last of injuries.”
Thus he the people’s pastor chid; but straight stood up to him
Divine Ulysses, who, with looks exceeding grave and grim,
This bitter check gave: “Cease, vain fool, to vent thy railing vein
On kings thus, though it serve thee well; nor think thou canst restrain,
With that thy railing faculty, their wills in least degree;
For not a worse, of all this host, came with our king than thee,
To Troy’s great siege; then do not take into that mouth of thine