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!And in my late-to-bed eyes I have damage,Bewailing what concerned thee, those torch-holdingsFor ever unattended to. In dreams — why,Beneath the light wing-beats o’ the gnat, I woke upAs he went buzzing — sorrows that concerned theeSeeing, that filled more than their fellow-sleep-time.Now, all this having suffered, from soul grief-freeI would style this man here the dog o’ the stables,