CHORUS.

Lay that to heart, and bid thy tongue learn grace.

HERALD OF EUMOLPUS.

Grace shall thine own crave soon too late of mine.

CHORUS.

Boast thou till then, but I wage words no more.

ERECHTHEUS.

Man, what shrill wind of speech and wrangling air

Blows in our ears a summons from thy lips

Winged with what message, or what gift or grace

Requiring? none but what his hand may take

Here may the foe think hence to reap, nor this

690

Except some doom from Godward yield it him.

HERALD OF EUMOLPUS.

King of this land-folk, by my mouth to thee

Thus saith the son of him that shakes thine earth,

[Pg 40]

Eumolpus; now the stakes of war are set,

For land or sea to win by throw and wear;

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