The Harpies, swooping down from some unseen den of destruction, ever snatch the food from my mouth.
And I have no device to aid me.

But it were easier, when I long for a meal, to escape my own thoughts than them, so swiftly do they fly through the air.

But if haply they do leave me a morsel of food it reeks of decay and the stench is unendurable, nor could any mortal bear to draw near even for a moment, no, not if his heart were wrought of adamant.

But necessity, bitter and insatiate, compels me to abide and abiding to put food in my cursed belly.

These pests, the oracle declares, the sons of Boreas shall restrain.