METAMORPHOSES, BOOK XIII.
THE chiefs are set, the crowd in circle close,
Lord of the seven-fold shield, great Ajax rose.
Angry of mood, survey'd (and stern his look)
The shore, the ships: with hands uplifted, spoke.
Is it, ye gods, before this fleet I plead,
The fleet from Trojan fires my valour saved!
And dares Ulysses to compare with me,
Nor scorned Ulysses Hector's fires to flee!
Is safer then the conference of words,
Than fierce encounter of contending swords?
Too slow of speech, in action swift and strong,
Not mine, as his, the readiness of tongue.
As greater far my prowess in the field,
To him the force of eloquence I yield.
My cause no art of elocution needs,
Soldiers, Pelasgians, ye have seen my deeds!
Unwitnessed his, Ulysses may recite,
Conscious of his alone the darksome night.
Great is the prize for arbitrement, I own,
But such my rival lessens its renown.
Nor may with pride the Telamonian hold,
What claims Ulysses arrogantly bold.
To him may glory in the contest be,
For him, to rival Ajax, victory!