“Glaucus, why are we two awarded special honours,with pride of place, the finest cuts of meat, our wine cups always full in Lycia, where all our people look on us as gods?  Why do we possess so much fine property, by the river Xanthus, beside its banks, rich vineyards and wheat-bearing ploughland?

It’s so we’ll stand in the Lycian front ranks and meet head on the blazing fires of battle, so then some well-armed Lycian will say,

‘They’re not unworthy, those men who rule Lycia, those kings of ours. It’s true they eat plump sheep and drink the best sweet wines—but they are strong, fine men, who fight in Lycians’ front ranks.’

Ah my friend, if we could escape this war, and live forever, without growing old, if we were ageless, then I’d not fight on in the foremost ranks, nor would I send you to those wars where men win glory. But now, a thousand shapes of fatal death confront us, which no mortal man can flee from or avoid.

So let’s go forward, to give the glory to another man or win it for ourselves.”