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Chorus
428
I would not have thee thus lament thy woes,
And yet I know not how to chide thee for it.
So hard thy lot.
Would e'er so well have suited my condition !
Oh ! I have reason to lament indeed.
For sure there is not such a wretch as Ajax !
Long since at Troy my valiant father fought.
And to his native land, with glory crowned,
Bore back the meed of his distinguished virtues :
Nor less renowned for gallant deeds was once
His hapless son, though now he perish thus
Inglorious : yet Achilles, well I know,
Were he alive, and to bestow his arms
On him who best deserved the prize, to me.
And me alone, would 'judge, the greo.t reward :
But little deemed the Atridse worth like mine.
And therefore gave them to that vile impostor.
Author of every evil work, Ulysses.
481
Had not my mind been wrought on by some power
Superior, and my eyes averted from them.
They had not lived to give another sentence ;
But Jove's great daughter, the invincible,
The dreadful Pallas, turned my arm aside,
Just raised against them, and inspired me thus
With liorrid rage to dip my murd'rous hand
In blood of guiltless cattle : they meantime
Smile at tlie danger 'scaped, and triumph o'er me.
But, when the gods oppose us, valour bends
To cowai-dico, and strength to weakness yields ;
By Troy detested, and by Greece forsaken ?
Shall I go leave the Atridae here alone
To fight their cause, and seek my native land ?
But how shall I appear before my father.
Spoiled of his honours 1 he who ever crowned
^Vith glory sits ; it must not, cannot be.
What if I rush amid the Trojan host,
And with my single arm oppose them all,
Do something noble, and as nobly perish !
But that would please th' Atridje, therefore never
Shall it be done : no, 1 will do a deed
To show my father that I still deserve
The name of son, and emulate my sire :
When life but teems with unremitted woes,
'Tis poor in man to wish a longer date :
For what can day on day, and year on year,
But put off wished-for death, and lengthen pain ?
Of little worth is he who still depends
On fruitless hope ; for it becomes the brave
To live with honour, or to die with glory.
Ye have my thoughts.
Chor Thoughts not unworthy of thee,
Ajax ; but quit, oh ! quit, thy horrid purpose.
And yield thee to thy friends.
I would not have thee thus lament thy woes,
And yet I know not how to chide thee for it.
So hard thy lot.
Would e'er so well have suited my condition !
Oh ! I have reason to lament indeed.
For sure there is not such a wretch as Ajax !
Long since at Troy my valiant father fought.
And to his native land, with glory crowned,
Bore back the meed of his distinguished virtues :
Nor less renowned for gallant deeds was once
His hapless son, though now he perish thus
Inglorious : yet Achilles, well I know,
Were he alive, and to bestow his arms
On him who best deserved the prize, to me.
And me alone, would 'judge, the greo.t reward :
But little deemed the Atridse worth like mine.
And therefore gave them to that vile impostor.
Author of every evil work, Ulysses.
Had not my mind been wrought on by some power
Superior, and my eyes averted from them.
They had not lived to give another sentence ;
But Jove's great daughter, the invincible,
The dreadful Pallas, turned my arm aside,
Just raised against them, and inspired me thus
With liorrid rage to dip my murd'rous hand
In blood of guiltless cattle : they meantime
Smile at tlie danger 'scaped, and triumph o'er me.
But, when the gods oppose us, valour bends
To cowai-dico, and strength to weakness yields ;
By Troy detested, and by Greece forsaken ?
Shall I go leave the Atridae here alone
To fight their cause, and seek my native land ?
But how shall I appear before my father.
Spoiled of his honours 1 he who ever crowned
^Vith glory sits ; it must not, cannot be.
What if I rush amid the Trojan host,
And with my single arm oppose them all,
Do something noble, and as nobly perish !
But that would please th' Atridje, therefore never
Shall it be done : no, 1 will do a deed
To show my father that I still deserve
The name of son, and emulate my sire :
When life but teems with unremitted woes,
'Tis poor in man to wish a longer date :
For what can day on day, and year on year,
But put off wished-for death, and lengthen pain ?
Of little worth is he who still depends
On fruitless hope ; for it becomes the brave
To live with honour, or to die with glory.
Ye have my thoughts.
Chor Thoughts not unworthy of thee,
Ajax ; but quit, oh ! quit, thy horrid purpose.
And yield thee to thy friends.
Ajax. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.