Ah, but my tongue would fail me to tell all glories wherein the hallowed close
Of Argos hath shared; and ill to encounter is jealousy of praise-weary foes.
Yet, yet awaken the lyre of the lovely strings! Be thy rapt meditation
Of the prowess of wrestlers! The strife for the buckler of bronze forth summons a nation
To the sacrifice of oxen to Hera, to conflict’s decision, where Oulias’ son,
Theaius, the twice-triumphant, to rest from the toils so unflinchingly borne hath won.