And in my anger I was very foolish, I talked; I vowed, if I got home to Argos, I would have vengeance: so I roused Ulysses To hate me in his turn, and that began it, Downfall and evil, Ulysses always trying To frighten me with hint and accusation, With rumors planted where the crowd would listen; Oh yes, Ulysses knew what he was doing, He never stopped, until with Calchas working Hand in glove with him--why am I telling this, And what’s the use? I am stalling. All the Greeks, You think, are all alike; what more do you want? Inflict the punishment. That would be something Ulysses would rejoice in, and some others Pay handsome money for!’ But we were all on fire to hear him further. Pelasgian craft meant nothing to our folly. Trembling and nervous, he resumed his lying: ‘The Greeks were tired of the long war; they often Wanted to sail from Troy for home. Oh, would That they had only done it! But a storm Would cut them off, or the wrong wind terrify them. Especially, just after the horse was finished, With the joined planks of maple, all the heaven Roared loud with storm-clouds. In suspense and terror We sent Eurypylus to ask Apollo What could be done; the oracle was gloomy, Foreboding: “Blood, O Greeks, and a slain virgin Appeased the winds when first you came here; blood Must pay for your return, a life be given, An Argive life.” The word came to our ears With terror in it, our blood ran cold in our veins, For whom was fate preparing? who would be The victim of Apollo? Then Ulysses Dragged Calchas into our midst, with a great uproar, Trying his best to make the prophet tell us What the gods wanted. And there were many then Who told me what was coming, or kept silent Because they saw, and all too well, the scheme Ulysses had in mind. For ten days Calchas Said nothing at all, hid in his tent, refusing To have a word of his pronounce the sentence, And all the time Ulysses kept on shouting, Till Calchas broke, and doomed me to the altar. And all assented; what each man had feared In his own case, he bore with great composure When turned another way. The terrible day was almost on me; fillets Were ready for my temples, the salted meal Prepared, the altars standing. But I fled, I tore myself away from death, I admit it, I hid all night in sedge and muddy water At the edge of the lake, hoping, forever hoping, They might set sail. And now I hope no longer To see my home, my parents, or my children, Poor things, whom they will kill because I fled them, Whom they will murder for my sacrilege. But oh, by the gods above, by any power That values truth, by any uncorrupted Remnant of faith in all the world, have pity, Have pity on a soul that bears such sorrow, More than I ever deserved.’