Then Tydeus’ son, and Glaucus, in the midst, Son of Hippolochus, stood forth to fight; But when they near were met, to Glaucus first The valiant Diomed his speech address’d: “Who art thou, boldest man of mortal birth? For in the glorious conflict heretofore I ne’er have seen thee; but in daring now Thou far surpassest all, who hast not fear’d To face my spear; of most unhappy sires The children they, who my encounter meet. But if from Heav’n thou com’st, and art indeed A God, I fight not with the heav’nly powers. Not long did Dryas’ son, Lycurgus brave, Survive, who dar’d th’ Immortals to defy: He, ’mid their frantic orgies, in the groves Of lovely Nyssa, put to shameful rout The youthful Bacchus’ nurses; they, in fear, Dropp’d each her thyrsus, scatter’d by the hand Of fierce Lycurgus, with an ox-goad arm’d. Bacchus himself beneath the ocean wave In terror plung’d, and, trembling, refuge found In Thetis’ bosom from a mortal’s threats: The Gods indignant saw, and Saturn’s son Smote him with blindness; nor surviv’d he long, Hated alike by all th’ immortal Gods. I dare not then the blessed Gods oppose; But be thou mortal, and the fruits of earth Thy food, approach, and quickly meet thy doom.” To whom the noble Glaucus thus replied: “Great son of Tydeus, why my race enquire? The race of man is as the race of leaves: Of leaves, one generation by the wind Is scattered on the earth; another soon In spring’s luxuriant verdure bursts to light. So with our race; these flourish, those decay. But if thou wouldst in truth enquire and learn The race I spring from, not unknown of men; There is a city, in the deep recess Of pastoral Argos, Ephyre by name: There Sisyphus of old his dwelling had, Of mortal men the craftiest; Sisyphus, The son of Æolus; to him was born Glaucus; and Glaucus in his turn begot Bellerophon, on whom the Gods bestow’d The gifts of beauty and of manly grace. But Proetus sought his death; and, mightier far, From all the coasts of Argos drove him forth, To Proetus subjected by Jove’s decree. For him the monarch’s wife, Antaea, nurs’d A madd’ning passion, and to guilty love Would fain have tempted him; but fail’d to move The upright soul of chaste Bellerophon. With lying words she then address’d the King: ‘Die, Proetus, thou, or slay Bellerophon, Who basely sought my honour to assail.’ The King with anger listen’d to her words; Slay him he would not; that his soul abhorr’d; But to the father of his wife, the King Of Lycia, sent him forth, with tokens charg’d Of dire import, on folded tablets trac’d, Pois’ning the monarch’s mind, to work his death. To Lycia, guarded by the Gods, he went; But when he came to Lycia, and the streams Of Xanthus, there with hospitable rites The King of wide-spread Lycia welcom’d him. Nine days he feasted him, nine oxen slew; But with the tenth return of rosy morn He question’d him, and for the tokens ask’d He from his son-in-law, from Proetus, bore. The tokens’ fatal import understood,