Tecmessa
It is a sight of horror: I will wrap
This robe around him, with its ample folds
Covering his corse: for none, that was his friend,
Can bear to see him from his nostrils breathe
The purple gore, and from the blackening wound
By his own hand inflicted. Wretched me,
What can I do? What friend will bear him hence?'
Where now is Teucer? Hither should he bend
His steps, how opportunely would he come
The corse of his fallen brother to compose!
Was thine! What art thou now? Such, that thy foes
Would pity thee, and o'er thee drop a tear.
Ajax. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.