O son of Philanor, verily even thy swift feet’s glory
Had as dead leaves faded, unmarked, uncrowned,
There by the hearth of thy fathers: thy name had been heard not in story;
As a home-fighting cock hadst thou been unrenowned,
Had contention in Knossus of burgher with burgher in conflict gory
In the homeland not left thee no foot of ground.
But now at Olympia, Ergoteles, winning a victory-garland
And at Isthmus, at Pytho, twain—by these
Thou exaltest to honour the steaming Baths of the Nymphs in a far land,
On thine own lands dwelling in stormless peace.