...

CHORUS: 
Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen?

ULYSSES: 
And utterly destroyed the race of Priam.

...

SILENUS: 
The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see 160
The many-coloured anklets and the chain
Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris,
And so she left that good man Menelaus. 
There should be no more women in the world
But such as are reserved for me alone.—­ 165
See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses,
Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk;
Take them; depart with what good speed ye may;
First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew
Of joy-inspiring grapes.

ULYSSES: 
Ah me!  Alas! 170
What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand! 
Old man, we perish! whither can we fly?

SILENUS: 
Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock.

ULYSSES: 
’Twere perilous to fly into the net.

SILENUS: 
The cavern has recesses numberless; 175
Hide yourselves quick.

ULYSSES: 
That will I never do! 
The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced
If I should fly one man.  How many times
Have I withstood, with shield immovable. 
Ten thousand Phrygians!—­if I needs must die, 180
Yet will I die with glory;—­if I live,
The praise which I have gained will yet remain.

SILENUS: 
What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance!

[THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.]

CYCLOPS: 
What is this tumult?  Bacchus is not here,
Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. 185
How are my young lambs in the cavern?  Milking
Their dams or playing by their sides?  And is
The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets? 
Speak!  I’ll beat some of you till you rain tears—­
Look up, not downwards when I speak to you. 190

SILENUS: 
See!  I now gape at Jupiter himself;
I stare upon Orion and the stars.

CYCLOPS: 
Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid?

SILENUS: 
All ready, if your throat is ready too.

CYCLOPS: 
Are the bowls full of milk besides?

SILENUS: 
O’er-brimming; 195
So you may drink a tunful if you will.

CYCLOPS: 
Is it ewe’s milk or cow’s milk, or both mixed?—­

SILENUS: 
Both, either; only pray don’t swallow me.

CYCLOPS: 
By no means.—­
... 
What is this crowd I see beside the stalls? 200
Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home
I see my young lambs coupled two by two
With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie
Their implements; and this old fellow here
Has his bald head broken with stripes.