cease, Nor singly dare to seek dispute with kings. There came, I deem, no viler wretch than thou To Troy with Agamemnon. Prate no more Of kings, reviling them, and keeping watch For pretexts to return. We know not yet Whether to go or to remain were best. Thou railest at the shepherd of the host, Atrides Agamemnon, for thou seest The Grecian heroes load him with rewards, While thou insultest him with scurrilous words. I tell thee now—and I shall keep my word— If e’er again I find thee railing on, As now thou dost, then let Ulysses wear His head no longer, let me not be called The father of Telemachus, if I Shall fail to seize thee, and to strip thee bare Of cloak and tunic, and whatever else Covers thy carcass, and to send thee forth, Howling, to our swift barques upon the shore, Scourged from the council with a storm of blows.”
He spake, and with his sceptre smote the back And shoulders of the scoffer, who crouched low And shed a shower of tears. A bloody whelk Rose where the golden sceptre fell. He took His seat, dismayed, and still in pain wiped off The tears from his smutched face. The multitude Around him, though in anxious mood, were moved To smiles, and one addressed his neighbor thus:—
“Strange that Ulysses does a thousand things So well—so wise in council, and in war So brave; and for the Grecian army now He does the best of all, in silencing The chatter of this saucy slanderer, Whose acrid temper will not soon again Move him to rail with insolent speech at kings.”
So talked the multitude. Ulysses then, Holding the sceptre, rose, and by his side The blue-eyed Pallas, in a herald’s form, Commanded silence, that the Argive host— The mightiest and the meanest—might attend To what should now be said, and calmly weigh The counsel given them. With a prudent art Ulysses framed his speech, and thus he spake:—
“The Greeks, O Atreus’ son, would bring on thee Dishonor in the eyes and speech of men, Breaking the promise made when first they came