Leaving, — to holy seats she hies,Not worshipping the power of wealthStamped with applause by stealth:And to its end directs each thing begun. Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son!How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee, — nor yet overhittingNor yet underbending the grace that is fitting?Many of mortals hasten to honour the seeming-to-be —Passing by justice: and, with the ill-faring, to groan as he groans all are free.But no bite of the sorrow their liver has reached to:They say with the joyful, — one outside on each, too,As they force to a smile smileless faces.But whoever is good at distinguishing racesIn sheep of his flock — it is not for the eyesOf a man to escape such a shepherd’s surprise,As they seem, from a well-wishing mind,