At a sight so horrid, Ulysses and his men were like
distracted people. He, when he had made an end of his wicked supper,
drained a draught of goat's milk down his prodigious throat, and lay down
and slept among his goats. Then Ulysses drew his sword, and half resolved
to thrust it with all his might in at the bosom of the sleeping monster;
but wiser thoughts restrained him, else they had there without help all
perished, for none but Polyphemus himself could have removed that mass of
stone which he had placed to guard the entrance. So they were constrained
to abide all that night in fear.
When day came the Cyclop awoke, and kindling a fire, made his breakfast of
two other of his unfortunate prisoners, then milked his goats as he was
accustomed, and pushing aside the vast stone, and shutting it again when
he had done upon the prisoners, with as much ease as a man opens and shuts
a quiver's lid, he let out his flock, and drove them before him with
whistlings (as sharp as winds in storms) to the mountains.
Then Ulysses, of whose strength or cunning the Cyclop seems to have had as
little heed as of an infant's, being left alone, with the remnant of his
men which the Cyclop had not devoured, gave manifest proof how far manly
wisdom excels brutish force. He chose a stake from among the wood which
the Cyclop had piled up for firing, in length and thickness like a mast,
which he sharpened and hardened in the fire, and selected four men, and
instructed them what they should do with this stake, and made them perfect
in their parts.
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