Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/245

 Are not my teachers surer guides than thine—

Great Phoebus and the sire of Phoebus, Zeus?

Thou art a messenger suborned, thy tongue

Is sharper than a sword’s edge, yet thy speech

Will bring thee more defeats than victories.

Howbeit, I know I waste my words—begone,

And leave me here; whate’er may be my lot,

He lives not ill who lives withal content.

Which loses in this parley, I o’erthrown

By thee, or thou who overthrow’st thyself?

I shall be well contented if thy suit

Fails with these strangers, as it has with me.

Unhappy man, will years ne’er make thee wise?

Must thou live on to cast a slur on age?

Thou hast a glib tongue, but no honest man,

Methinks, can argue well on any side.

’Tis one thing to speak much, another well.

Thy words, forsooth, are few and all well aimed!

Not for a man indeed with wits like thine.

Depart! I bid thee in these burghers’ name,

And prowl no longer round me to blockade

My destined harbour. 223