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.