Philoctetes
FAIT
These vows, my son, I fear thou hast address'd
Without effect; for the black blood again
Spouts from the bottom of my wound; I dread
Anguish unknown before. Unhappy me,
What torture this! It thrills, it darts along,
It is not to be borne. You see my state;
But fly not; leave me not abandon'd here. I
Thou Cephallenian savage, might this pain
Pierce through thy breast, quite through! Ye brother kings,
Leaders of Greece, for such a length of time,
For me such anguish how had you sustain'd?
O death, O death, each day so oft invoked,
Canst thou ne'er come? My son, thou generous youth,
Oh take me, burn me in these whirling flames
Of Lemnos; which sad office for the son
Of Jove these hands refused not to perform,
These arms receiving as my meed. My son,
Why art thou silent? What employs thy thoughts?
Philoctetes. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.