But of a savage temper—in no wise
Maidenly, as befits his name—he strode,
His eyeballs rolling,—not without his boast
Advancing to the Gates. Our infamy
On his bronze shield, orbed to protect his bulk,
He flashed:—the ogrish Sphinx,—so riveted
That its embossed and staring ugliness
His arm convulsed to hideous counterfeit
Of life and motion. Underneath he sports
The figure of a man—a wight Cadmean—
As if on him to centre all our bolts!
He'll prove no petty trafficker in war,—
Nor for a bagman's profit lose his travel,—
Parthenopaeus, waif of Arcady!
Oh, that a rogue like this,—an outlander
In Argos, one who pays his reckoning,
A handsome sum for being handsome-bred,
Should hurl against these walls his boyish spite
And spleenful threats, I pray God bring to naught!
Eteocles.
If the same measure that they mete the Gods
Be meted out to them, then their bad vows
Shall hurl them far in hopeless overthrow!
But for him too, your churl Arcadian,
A knight is found: no braggart,—but his hand
Soon finds the thing to do! Actor his name,
Brother of him just chosen. No foul flood
Of deedless words will he let flow within
To water pale, rank weeds of cowardice;
Nor will he suffer to overpass these walls
The man who comes in guise of foe, escutcheoned
