Dire hatred ‘gainst my luckless self I roused.
Here was the fountain source of all my woes;
From now Ulysses, crafty enemy,
Began to spread vague hints among the Greeks,
Prefer strange charges, and to seek some cause
Against me, conscious in his heart of guilt.
Nor did he rest, until by Calchas’ aid—
But why do I rehearse this senseless tale
To heedless ears? Or wherefore should I seek
To stay your hands, if ‘tis enough to hear