To Ares stern! To Eris strife-possessed!
Help me, I'm old, to give this pillar these:
My shield, my sword well hacked with braveries,
My broken helmet with its bloody crest.

Join there this bow. But, say, is't meet I rest
The hemp around the wood, — hard medlar tree's
No arm but mine has ever bent with ease, —
Or stretch the cord again with eager zest?

The quiver also take. Thine eye cons o'er
The sheath of leather for the archer's store —
The arrows which the wind of battle floats.

'Tis empty; and thou think'st my shafts are gone?
Then hie thee to the field of Marathon,
Where thou wilt find them in the Persians' throats.