IV.

With his fist the proud dictator Smote the table that it rang— From the crystal vase before him The blood-red wine upsprang! “Is my sword a wreath of rushes, Or an idle plume my pen, That they dare to lay a finger On the meanest of my men? No amount of circumcision can annul the Briton’s right— Are they mad, these lords of Athens, for I know they cannot fight?