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Philoctetes
927
Thou worst of men, thou vile artificer
Of fraud most infamous, what hast thou done ?
How have I been deceived? Dost thou not bhish
To look upon me, to behold me thus
Beneath thy feet imploring? Base betrayer !
930
To rob me of my bow, the means of hfe,
The only means — give 'em, restore 'em to me !
Do not take all ! Alas ! he hears me not,
Kor deigns to speak, but casts an angry look
That says I never shall be free again.
O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds !
935
To you I speak — to you alone I now
Must breathe my sorrows ; you are wont to hear.
My sad complaints, and I will tell you all
That I have suffered from Achilles' son,
Who, bound by solemn oath to bear me hence
To my dear native soil, now sails for Troy.
940
The perjured wretch lii-st gave his plighted hand,
Then stole the sacred arrows of my friend,
The son of Jove, the great Alcides ; those
He means to show the Greeks, to snatch me hence
This empty shade, were worthy of his arm.
945
Had I been what I was, he ne'er had thus
945
Subdued me, and e'en now to fraud alone
He owes the conquest . I have been betiuyed !
Give me my arms again, and be thyself
Once more. Oh, speak ! Thou wilt not? Then I'm lost.
O my poor hut ! again I come to thee
950
Naked and destitute of food ; once more
Receive me, here to die ; for now, no longer
Shall my swift arrow reach the flying prey,
Or on the mountains pierce the wandering herd ;
1 shall myself afford a banquet now
To those I used to feed on — they the hunters.
955
And I their easy prey ; so shall the blood
Which I so oft have shed be paid by mine ;
And all this too fron him whom once I deemed
Stranger to fraud nor capable of ill ;
And yet I will not curse thee till I know
Whether thou still retainst thy horrid purpose,
960
Or dost repent thee of it ; if thou dost not,
Destruction wait thee !
Thou worst of men, thou vile artificer
Of fraud most infamous, what hast thou done ?
How have I been deceived? Dost thou not bhish
To look upon me, to behold me thus
Beneath thy feet imploring? Base betrayer !
930
To rob me of my bow, the means of hfe,
The only means — give 'em, restore 'em to me !
Do not take all ! Alas ! he hears me not,
Kor deigns to speak, but casts an angry look
That says I never shall be free again.
O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds !
935
To you I speak — to you alone I now
Must breathe my sorrows ; you are wont to hear.
My sad complaints, and I will tell you all
That I have suffered from Achilles' son,
Who, bound by solemn oath to bear me hence
To my dear native soil, now sails for Troy.
940
The perjured wretch lii-st gave his plighted hand,
Then stole the sacred arrows of my friend,
The son of Jove, the great Alcides ; those
He means to show the Greeks, to snatch me hence
This empty shade, were worthy of his arm.
945
Had I been what I was, he ne'er had thus
945
Subdued me, and e'en now to fraud alone
He owes the conquest . I have been betiuyed !
Give me my arms again, and be thyself
Once more. Oh, speak ! Thou wilt not? Then I'm lost.
O my poor hut ! again I come to thee
950
Naked and destitute of food ; once more
Receive me, here to die ; for now, no longer
Shall my swift arrow reach the flying prey,
Or on the mountains pierce the wandering herd ;
1 shall myself afford a banquet now
To those I used to feed on — they the hunters.
955
And I their easy prey ; so shall the blood
Which I so oft have shed be paid by mine ;
And all this too fron him whom once I deemed
Stranger to fraud nor capable of ill ;
And yet I will not curse thee till I know
Whether thou still retainst thy horrid purpose,
960
Or dost repent thee of it ; if thou dost not,
Destruction wait thee !
Philoctetes. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.