foe, the victor lends, Scornful, his hand; and gives him to his friends; Whose arms support him, reeling through the throng, And dragging his disabled legs along; Nodding, his head hangs down his shoulder o'er; His mouth and nostrils pour the clotted gore;(292) Wrapp'd round in mists he lies, and lost to thought; His friends receive the bowl, too dearly bought. The third bold game Achilles next demands, And calls the wrestlers to the level sands: A massy tripod for the victor lies, Of twice six oxen its reputed price; And next, the loser's spirits to restore, A female captive, valued but at four. Scarce did the chief the vigorous strife prop When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose. Amid the ring each nervous rival stands, Embracing rigid with implicit hands. Close lock'd above, their heads and arms are mix'd: Below, their planted feet at distance fix'd; Like two strong rafters which the builder forms, Proof to the wintry winds and howling storms, Their tops connected, but at wider space Fix'd on the centre stands their solid base. Now to the grasp each manly body bends; The humid sweat from every pore descends; Their bones resound with blows: sides, shoulders, thighs Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise. Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown'd, O'erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground; Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow The watchful caution of his artful foe. While the long strife even tired the lookers on, Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon: "Or let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me: Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree." He said; and, straining, heaved him off the ground With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found The strength to evade, and where the nerves combine His ankle struck: the giant fell supine; Ulysses, following, on his bosom lies; Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies. Ajax to lift Ulysses next essays; He barely stirr'd