Of Priamos: gods who, from no tongue hearingThe rights o’ the cause, for Ilion’s fate man-slaught’rousInto the bloody vase, not oscillating,Put the vote-pebbles, while, o’ the rival vessel,Hope rose up to the lip-edge: filled it was not.By smoke the captured city is still conspicuous:Até’s burnt offerings live: and, dying with them,The ash sends forth the fulsome blasts of riches.Of these things, to the gods grace many-mindful’T is right I render, since both nets outrageousWe built them round with, and, for sake of woman,It did the city to dust — the Argeian monster,The horse’s nestling, the shield-bearing peopleThat made a leap, at setting of the Pleiads,And, vaulting o’er the tower, the raw-flesh-feedingLion licked up his fill of blood tyrannic.I to the gods indeed prolonged this preface;But — as for thy thought, I remember hearing —I say the same, and thou co-pleader hast me.Since few of men this faculty is born with —