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And Iris came on Helen in her rooms. . .weaving a growing web, a dark red folding robe, working into the weft the endless bloody strugglesstallion-breaking Trogans and Argives armed in bronzehad suffered all for her at the god of battle’s hands. (III, 150-54)

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Reaching the Myrmidon shelters and their ships,

they found him there, delighting his heart now,

plucking strong and clear on the fine lyre—

beautifully carved, its silver bridge set firm—

he won from the spoils when he razed Etion’s city.

Achilles was lifting his spirits with it now, singing the famous deeds of fighting

heroes. . . (IX, 222-28) NBA 2K9 Highlights

and when they’d put aside desire for food and drinkthe suitors set their minds on other pleasures, song and dancing, all that crowns a feast. A herald placed an ornate lyre in Phemius’ hands, the bard who always performed among them there;they forced the man to sing (I, 174-79).

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So they mocked, but Odysseus, mastermind in action,

once he’d handled the great bow and scanned every inch,

then, like an expert singer skilled at lyre and song—

who strains a string to a new peg with ease, making the pliant sheep gut fast at either end—so with his virtuoso ease Odyesseus strung his

mighty bow.(XXI, 451-56)

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. . . And sometimes a proud old soldierWho had heard songs of the ancient heroesAnd could sing them all through, story after story,Would weave a net of words for Beowulf'sVictory, tying the knot of his versesSmoothly, swiftly, into place with the poet'sQuick skill, singing his new song aloudWhile he shaped it, and the old songs as well---(867-74)

Hrothgar’s hall resounded with the harp’sHigh call, with songs and laughter and the tellingOf tales, stories sung by the courtPoet as the joyful Danes drankAnd listened, seated along their mead benches.(1063-67)

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[. . . ] One ancientDane told of long-dead times, And sometimes Hrothgar himself, with the

harpIn his lap, stroked its silvery stringsAnd told wonderful stories, a brave kingReciting unhappy truths about goodAnd evil—and sometimes he wove his

storiesOn the mournful thread of old age,

rememberingBuried strength and the battles it had won.He would weep, the old king, wise with

manyWinters, remembering what he’d done,

once, What he’d seen, what he knew. And so we

satThe day away, feasting. (2105-17)

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And then twelve of the bravest GeatsRode their horses around the tower, Telling their sorrow, telling storiesOf their dead king and his greatness,

his glory, Praising him for heroic deeds, for a

lifeAs noble as his name. (3169-74)

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Beowulf spoke: “Let your sorrow end! It is better for

us allTo avenge our friends, not mourn

them forever. Each of us will come to the end of

this lifeOn earth; he who can earn it should

fightFor the glory of his name; fame after

death Is the noblest of goals. [. . . ]”(1383-89)

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[. . . ] But BeowulfLonged only for fame, leaped backInto battle. [. . . ] So fameComes to the men who mean to win itAnd care about nothing else!(1529-36)

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“I’ve never known fear; as a youth I foughtIn endless battles. I am old, now,But I will fight again, seek fame still, If the dragon hiding in his tower daresTo face me.” (2511-15)

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