“You sissy, curly-haired pimp of a bowman! Why don’t you come down and fight me man to man [410] And see how far your bow and arrow get you? Boasting because you scratched my foot! {210} I might as well have been hit by a woman Or imbecile child. A weakling’s weapon is blunt. When I throw a spear it kills you on contact— My throw makes it sharp—and your widow’s cheeks Are torn with grief, your children are fatherless, Your blood reddens the earth, and you rot, With more birds than women around you.”