“All thou hast said, my son, is simple truth: No firmness now my limbs and feet retain, Nor can my arms with freedom, as of old, Straight from the shoulder, right and left, strike out. Oh that such youth and vigour yet were mine, As when th’ Epeians in Buprasium held The royal Amarynceus’ fun’ral games, And when the monarch’s sons his prizes gave! Then could not one of all th’ Epeian race, Or Pylians, or Ætolians, vie with me. In boxing, Clytomedes, Œnops’ son, I vanquished; then Anchaeus, who stood up To wrestle with me, I with ease o’erthrew; Iphiclus I outran, though fleet of foot; In hurling with the spear, with Phyleus strove, And Polydorus, and surpass’d them both. The sons of Actor in the chariot-race Alone o’ercame me; as in number more,[8] And grudging more my triumph, since remain’d, This contest to reward, the richest prize. They were twin brothers; one who held the reins, Still drove, and drove; the other plied the whip. Such was I once; but now must younger men Engage in deeds like these; and I, the chief Of heroes once, must bow to weary age. But honour thou with fitting fun’ral games Thy comrade: I accept, well-pleas’d, thy gift, My heart rejoicing that thou still retain’st Of me a kindly mem’ry, nor o’erlook’st The place of honour, which among the Greeks Belongs to me of right; for this, the Gods Reward thee with a worthy recompense!” He said; Achilles listen’d to the praise Of Neleus’ son; then join’d the gen’ral throng. Next, he set forth the prizes, to reward The labours of the sturdy pugilists; A hardy mule he tether’d in the ring, Unbroken, six years old, most hard to tame; And for the vanquished man, a double cup; Then rose, and to the Greeks proclaim’d aloud: “Thou son of Atreus, and ye well-greav’d Greeks, For these we bid two champions brave stand forth. And in the boxer’s manly toil contend; And he, whose stern endurance Phoebus crowns With vict’ry, recogniz’d by all the Greeks, He to his tent shall lead the hardy mule; The loser shall the double cup receive.” He said; up sprang Epeius, tall and stout, A boxer skill’d, the son of Panopeus, Who laid his hand upon the mule, and said: “Stand forth, if any care the cup to win; The mule, methinks, no Greek can bear away From me, who glory in the champion’s name. Is’t not enough, that in the battle-field I claim no special praise? ’tis not for man In all things to excel; but this I say, And will make good my words, who meets me here, I mean to pound his flesh, and smash his bones. See that his seconds be at hand, and prompt To bear him from the ring, by me subdued.”