Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/283



Grievous to me, my child, the boon ye win

By pleading. Let it be then; have your way.

Only if come he must, I beg thee, friend,

Let none have power to dispose of me.

No need, Sir, to appeal a second time.

It likes me not to boast, but be assured

Thy life is safe while any god saves mine.

[Exit.

Who craves excess of days,

Scorning the common span

Of life, I judge that man

A giddy wight who walks in folly’s ways.

For the long years heap up a grievous load,

Scant pleasures, heavier pains,

Till not one joy remains

For him who lingers on life’s weary road.

And come it slow or fast,

One doom of fate

Doth all await,

For dance and marriage bell,

The dirge and funeral knell.

Death the deliverer freeth all at last.

Not to be born at all

Is best, far best that can befall,

Next best, when born, with least delay,

To trace the backward way. 261