And now the Terror of the Trojan Field little Urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains. Yet great in Homer, ftill Achilles lives; And equal to himself, himself furvives. His Buckler owns its former Lord; and brings New cause of Strife, betwixt contending Kings; Who Worthiest after him, his Sword to wield, ' Or wear his Armour, or fuftain his Shield. Ev'n Diomede fate Mute, with down-caft Eyes; Conscious of wanted Worth to win the Prize: Nor Menelaus presum'd these Arms to claim, Nor He the King of Men, a greater Name. Two Rivals only rofe: Laertes' Son, And the vast Bulk of Ajax Telamon : The King, who cherish'd each, with equal Love, Left both to be determin'd by the Laws; THE SPEECHES O F Ajax and Vlyffes: From the Thirteenth Book of OVID's Metamorphofes. HE Chiefs were fet; the Soldiers crown'd the Field: To these the Mafter of the seven fold Shield, Upstarted fierce: And kindled with Difdain Eager to speak, unable to contain His boiling Rage, he rowl'd his Eyes around In fight of what he durft not once defend? [Prey. When I from Hector's Hands redeem'd the flaming With Words to flourifh, than ingage in War. His Arms are afmooth Tongue; and foft Deceit: And vouch the filent Stars, and confcious Moon; But fuch an abject Rival makes it lefs; That Gift, thofe Honours, he but hop'd to gain, Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain: Lofing he wins, because his Name will be Enobled by Defeat, who durft contend with me. Were my known Valour question'd, yet my Blood Without that Plea wou'd make my Title good: My Sire was Telamon, whofe Arms, employ'd With Hercules, these Trojan Walls destroy'd; And who before with Jafon, fent from Greece, In the first Ship brought home the Golden Fleece : Great Telamon from Eacus derives His Birth (th' Inquifitor of guilty Lives In Shades below; where Syfiphus, whose Son Begot: Thus Ajax is the third from Jove. Nor fhunn'd the Cause, but offer'd you my Aid, While he long lurking was to War betray'd: Forc'd to the Field he came, but in the Reer; And feign'd Distraction to conceal his Fear: Till one more cunning caught him in the Snare; (Ill for himself) and dragg'd him into War. Now let a Hero's Arms a Coward veft, And he who shunn'd all Honours, gain the best: And let me ftand excluded from my Right, Robb'd of my Kinfman's Arms, who firft appear'd in Fight. Better for us at home had he remain'd, Had it been true the Madness which he feign'd, Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd 1 |