But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night, invades his foes? The glittering helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game; Nor could he hold his tottering head upright Beneath that motion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm could toss the beamy lance, Much less the left that ampler shield advance; Ponderous with precious weight, and rough with cost Of the round world in rising gold embossed. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look, as for the gold he stole the shield; Which should your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe. Why asks he what avails him not in fight, And would but cumber and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is placed? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield, Nor the least dint has suffered in the field, Guiltless of fight; mine, battered, hewed, and bored, Worn out of service, must forsake his lord. What farther need of words our right to scan? My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man. Since from a champion's arms the strife arose, So cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms and shield, And let him wear, who wins them in the field.-- He said:--A murmur from the multitude, Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensued; Till from his seat arose Laertes' son, Looked down a while, and paused ere he begun; Then to the expecting audience raised his look, And not without prepared attention spoke; Soft was his tone, and sober was his face, Action his words, and words his action grace. If heaven, my lords, had heard our common prayer, These arms had caused no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possessed, And we with great Achilles had been blessed: But since hard fate, and heaven's severe decree, Have ravished him away from you and me, (At this he sighed, and wiped his eyes, and drew, Or seemed to draw, some drops of kindly dew,) Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he who gave Achilles to your host? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing, nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which heaven to him denies; Since, great or small, the talent I enjoyed Was ever in the common cause employed: Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been used in your defence And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against myself, and deemed a fault. Make not a crime, where nature made it none; For every man may freely use his own. The deeds of long descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours, Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine,