Chapter_12

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But impossible is it for me to call

Any Blest One man-eater⁠—with loathing and scorn

I recoil! O, the profit is passing small

That the dealer in slander hath ofttimes found.

But if ever a man on the earth was born

Whom the Watchers from Heaven with honour crowned,

That man was Tantalus: yet of their favour

No profit he had, nor of that high bliss.

But the man’s proud stomach was drunk with its savour

And gorged with pride; and by reason of this

He drew on him ruin utter-crushing;

For Zeus hung o’er him a huge black scaur,

And he cowers from it aye on his head down-rushing

From happiness exiled far.