Attendant
1017
Have you repaid? O Jove, with what fierce pains
Hast thou afflicted me? This dire disease,
Whose unextinguish'd rage to madness fires
My bursting veins, oh that I had not known!
What potent charm, what skill medicinal
Can mitigate, without the pow'r of Jove,
These agonizing pangs? Oh might I see
This miracle, though distant! Let me lie,
Ah, let me lie reposed. Why dost thou touch,
Why dost thou raise me up? Each touch is death.
Thou hast awaken'd pangs that were at rest.
Again my tortures are inflamed, again
They rush upon me. Ah, where are you now,
Ye most unjust of all the Grecian race?
With many toils th' infested seas I clear'd,
And all the ruffian-haunted woods; yet now
I miserably perish; not a man
Will bring or fire or sword to put an end
To my afflictions; not a man will come
Willing to rend from me this hated life.
O thou his son, this task requires a strength
Greater than mine; assist him thou, thine eye
Quicker than mine sees what may give him aid.
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.