CYCLOPS: 
Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise man’s God,
All other things are a pretence and boast. 
What are my father’s ocean promontories,
The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me? 
Stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove’s thunderbolt, 305
I know not that his strength is more than mine. 
As to the rest I care not.—­When he pours
Rain from above, I have a close pavilion
Under this rock, in which I lie supine,
Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, 310
And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously
Emulating the thunder of high Heaven. 
And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow,
I wrap my body in the skins of beasts,
Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. 315
The earth, by force, whether it will or no,
Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds,
Which, to what other God but to myself
And this great belly, first of deities,
Should I be bound to sacrifice?  I well know 320
The wise man’s only Jupiter is this,
To eat and drink during his little day,
And give himself no care.  And as for those
Who complicate with laws the life of man,
I freely give them tears for their reward. 325
I will not cheat my soul of its delight,
Or hesitate in dining upon you:—­
And that I may be quit of all demands,
These are my hospitable gifts;—­fierce fire
And yon ancestral caldron, which o’er-bubbling 330
Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. 
Creep in!—­

...

ULYSSES: 
Ai! ai!  I have escaped the Trojan toils,
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. 335
O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove,
Now, now, assist me!  Mightier toils than Troy
Are these;—­I totter on the chasms of peril;—­
And thou who inhabitest the thrones
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, 340
Upon this outrage of thy deity,
Otherwise be considered as no God!

CHORUS (ALONE): 
For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide,
The ravin is ready on every side,
The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done; 345
There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal,
You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun,
An hairy goat’s-skin contains the whole. 
Let me but escape, and ferry me o’er
The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. 350
The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold,
He murders the strangers
That sit on his hearth,
And dreads no avengers
To rise from the earth. 355
He roasts the men before they are cold,
He snatches them broiling from the coal,