For hostile word let hostile word be paid.
Bronze is the mirror of form, wine of the heart.
I warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.
The will was of Zeus, the hand of Hephaestus.
Many among men are they who set high the show of honor, yet break justice.
Since long I've held silence a remedy for harm.