And thou, a lord of Barbary even as we,Thou, brother of our blood, like one at supWho quaffs his fill and flings away the cup,Hast flung to the Greeks my city! Yet, long since,’Twas I that found thee but a little princeAnd made thee mighty, I and this right hand;When round Pangaion and the Paiôn’s land,Front against front, I burst upon the broodOf Thrace and broke their targes, and subduedTheir power to thine. The grace whereof, not small,Thou hast spurned, and when thy kinsmen, drowning, call,Comest too late. Thou! Others there have beenThese long years, not by nature of our kin . .Some under yon rough barrows thou canst seeLie buried; they were true to Troy and me;And others, yet here in the shielded lineOr mid the chariots, parching in the shineOf noonday, starving in the winds that biteThrough Ilion’s winter, still endure and fightOn at my side. ’Twas not their way, to lie