But if a man, in speed of foot victorious, Or in the contests of the pentathlum, Where is the sacred grove of Jupiter, Near to the sacred streamlets of Olympia; Or as a wrestler, or exchanging blows And painful struggles as a hardy boxer, Or in the terrible pancratium, He surely is a noble citizen, And well he does deserve the honours due Of a front seat at games and festivals, And at the public cost to be maintain'd; And to receive a public gift of honour, Which shall become an heirloom to his children. And such shall be his honours, even if He wins by horses, not by his own strength. And still I think he does not equal me; For wisdom far exceeds in real value The bodily strength of man, or horses' speed; But the mob judges of such things at random; Though 'tis not right to prefer strength to sense: For though a man may a good boxer be, Or pentathlete, or never-conquer'd wrestler, Or if he vanquish all in speed of foot— Which is the most important of all contests— Still for all this his city will enjoy No better laws through his great strength or speed; And 'tis small cause for any lasting joy, That one of all her citizens should gain A prize on Pisa's banks; for such achievements Fill not the country's granaries with corn. And Xenophanes contends at great length, and with great earnestness and variety of argument, in favour of the superior advantage of his own wisdom, running down athletic exercises as useless and unprofitable. And Achæus the Eretrian, speaking of the good constitution of the athletes, says— [Sidenote: VORACITY OF CERTAIN PERSONS.] For naked they did wave their glistening arms, And move along exulting in their youth, Their valiant shoulders swelling in their prime Of health and strength; while they anoint with oil Their chests and feet and limbs abundantly, As being used to luxury at home. 7. But Heraclitus, in his Entertainer of Strangers, says that there was a woman named Helena, who ate more than any other woman ever did. And Posidippus, in his Epigrams, says that Phuromachus was a great eater, on whom he wrote this epigram:— This lowly ditch now holds Phuromachus, Who used to swallow everything he saw, Like a fierce carrion crow who roams all night. Now here he lies wrapp'd in a ragged cloak. But, O Athenian, whoe'er you are, Anoint this tomb and crown it with a wreath, If ever in old times he feasted with you. At last he came sans teeth, with eyes worn out, And livid swollen eyelids; clothed in skins, With but one single cruse, and that scarce full; For from the gay Lenæan games he came, Descending humbly to Calliope.