“Wine-bibber, with the forehead of a dog And a deer’s heart! Thou never yet hast dared To arm thyself for battle with the rest, Nor join the other chiefs prepared to lie In ambush⁠—such thy craven fear of death. Better it suits thee, midst the mighty host Of Greeks, to rob some warrior of his prize Who dares withstand thee. King thou art, and yet Devourer of thy people. Thou dost rule A spiritless race, else this day’s insolence, Atrides, were thy last. And now I say, And bind my saying with a mighty oath: By this my sceptre, which can never bear A leaf or twig, since first it left its stem Among the mountains⁠—for the steel has pared Its boughs and bark away, to sprout no more⁠— And now the Achaian judges bear it⁠—they Who guard the laws received from Jupiter, Such is my oath⁠—the time shall come when all The Greeks shall long to see Achilles back, While multitudes are perishing by the hand Of Hector, the man-queller; thou, meanwhile, Though thou lament, shalt have no power to help, And thou shalt rage against thyself to think That thou hast scorned the bravest of the Greeks.