Strophios the Phokian — ills that told on both sidesTo me predicting — both of thee ’neath Ilion The danger, and if anarchy’s mob-uproarShould overthrow thy council; since ’t is born withMortals, — whoe’er has fallen, the more to kick him.Such an excuse, I think, no cunning carries! As for myself — why, of my wails the rushingFountains are dried up: not in them a drop more!