Ulysses, the sagacious, frowned and said:— “Stranger, thou speakest not becomingly, But like a man who recks not what he says. The gods bestow not equally on all The gifts that men desire—the grace of form, The mind, the eloquence. One man to sight Is undistinguished, but on him the gods Bestow the power of words. All look on him Gladly; he knows whereof he speaks; his speech Is mild and modest; he is eminent In all assemblies, and, whene’er he walks The city, men regard him as a god. Another in the form he wears is like The immortals, yet has he no power to speak Becoming words. So thou hast comely looks— A god would not have shaped thee otherwise Than we behold thee—yet thy wit is small, And thy unmannerly words have angered me Even to the heart. Not quite unskilled am I In games, as thou dost idly talk, and once, When I could trust my youth and my strong arms, I think that in these contests I was deemed Among the first. But I am now pressed down With toil and sorrow; much have I endured In wars with heroes and on stormy seas. Yet even thus, a sufferer as I am, Will I essay these feats; for sharp have been Thy words, and they provoke me to the proof.”
He spake, and rising with his mantle on He seized a broader, thicker, heavier quoit, By no small odds, than the Phaeacians used, And swinging it around with vigorous arm He sent it forth; it sounded as it went; And the Phaeacians, skilful with the oar And sail, bent low as o’er them, from his hand, Flew the swift stone beyond the other marks. And Pallas, in a human form, set up A mark where it descended, and exclaimed:—
“Stranger! a blind man, groping here, could find Thy mark full easily, since it is not Among the many, but beyond them all. Then fear thou nothing in this game at least; For no Phaeacian here can throw the quoit As far as thou, much less exceed thy cast.”
She spake; Ulysses the great sufferer Heard, and rejoiced to know he had a friend In that great circle. With a lighter heart Thus said the chief to the Phaeacian crowd:—