Will he compare my courage with his sleight? As well he may compare the day with night. Night is indeed the province of his reign: Yet all his dark exploits no more contain Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain; A priest made prisoner; Pallas made a prey: But none of all these actions done by day; Nor aught of these was done, and Diomed away. If on such petty merits you confer So vast a prize, let each his portion share; Make a just dividend; and if not all, The greater part to Diomed will fall. But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night, invades his foes? The glittering helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game: Nor could he hold his tottering head upright Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm could toss the beamy lance; Much less the left that ampler shield advance, Ponderous with precious weight, and rough with cost, Of the round world in rising gold emboss’d. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look as for the gold he stole the shield;

Which, should your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe. Why asks he what avails him not in fight, And would but cumber and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is placed? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden shield, Nor the least dint has suffer’d in the field, Guiltless of fight: mine, batter’d, hew’d, and bored, Worn out of service, must forsake its lord. What further need of words, our right to scan? My arguments are deeds; let action speak the man. Since from a champion’s arms the strife arose, Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms and shield, And let him wear who wins them in the field.”

“If Heaven, my lords, had heard our common prayer, These arms had caused no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possess’d, And we with great Achilles had been bless’d: But since hard fate, and Heaven’s severe decree, Have ravish’d him away from you and me,” (At this he sigh’d, and wiped his eyes, and drew, Or seem’d to draw, some drops of kindly dew,) “Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he who gave Achilles to your host? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing, nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which Heaven to him denies; Since great or small, the talent I enjoy’d Was ever in the common cause employ’d: Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been used in your defence, And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against myself, and deem’d a fault: Make not a crime where nature made it none; For every man may freely use his own. The deeds of long-descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours,

Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine; From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree, And am descended in the same degree. My sire Laertes was Arcesius’ heir; Arcesius was the son of Jupiter: No parricide, no banish’d man is known, In all my line: let him excuse his own. Hermes ennobles too my mother’s side, By both my parents to the gods allied. But not because that on the female part My blood is better, dare I claim desert, Or that my sire from parricide is free; But judge by merit between him and me: The prize be to the best; provided yet That Ajax for a while his kin forget, And his great sire, and greater uncle’s name, To fortify by them his feeble claim; Be kindred and relation laid aside, And honour’s cause by laws of honour tried: For if he plead proximity of blood; That empty title is with ease withstood. Peleus, the hero’s sire, more nigh than he, And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny,