We find the foe not fled, but turned to strike;One check there, and all hope of good returnIs gone. How can our men, returning, learnThe tricks of the palisade? The chariots howKeep to the bridges on the trenches’ brow,Save with jammed wheels and broken axles? Aye,And say thou conquer: other wars yet lieBefore thee. Peleus’ son, for all his ire,Will never let thee touch the ships with fireOr pounce on his Greek lambs. The man will bideNo wrong and standeth on a tower of pride.Nay, brother, let the army, head on shield,Sleep off its long day’s labour in the field:Then, send a spy; find someone who will dareCreep to yon Argive camp. Then, if ’tis clearThey mean flight, on and smite them as they fly.Else, if the beacons hide some strategy,The spy will read it out, and we can callA council.—Thus speak I, my general.

CHORUS.[Strophe.’Tis good! ’Tis wisdom! Prince, give heed