You wine-sodden wretch, dog-faced, deer-hearted, not once have you dared to arm yourself for battle with your troops,

You wine-sodden wretch, dog-faced, deer-hearted, not once

have you dared to arm yourself for battle with your troops,

or joined in an ambush with the Achaian chieftains!

Oh no, such things spell death to you. Better by far

to range here through the broad camp of the Achaians

and take back the gifts of whoever speaks out against you!

A king that feeds off his commons, who rules mere nonentities!

Otherwise, son of Atreus, this new outrage would be your last.

This, though, I will tell you, and swear a great oath besides:

By this staff—which never again will put out leaves or shoots

since the day it first left its tree stump in the mountains,

nor will it flourish afresh, since the bronze has stripped it

of leaves and bark, and now those sons of the Achaians

who render judgments, who safeguard the ordinances of Zeus,

carry it in their hands—this will be my great oath for you:

One day the need for Achilles will hit the Achaians’ sons,

every man jack of them—then, for all your grief, you’ll not

be able to help them, when many at the hands of Hector,

killer of men, fall dying; you’ll eat out the heart within you,

incensed that you failed to honor the best of the Achaians.

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