Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/155

 How thine own misery thou hast wrought,

And mak’st a burden of thy life

By ever heaping strife on strife

In sullen mood? Ill fares the right

When feebleness contends with might.

Bitter constraint compelled me, and I know

My heart with wrath did overflow;

But never while life lasts will I control,

Thus wronged, the indignant passion of my soul.

Ye mean me well, but solace is there none

For woes like mine, so all who know must own.

Forbear, kind comforters, forbear; be sure

A case so desperate admits no cure.

What respite to my sorrows, what relief?

No tears, no moans, can satisfy such grief.

O heap not misery on misery,

As a fond mother I would plead with thee.

No, for this villainy grows and knows no bound.

Where can a race be found

So vile as they, to disregard the dead?

By praise of such men I were ill bestead.

O may I ne’er, if fate should on me smile,

In careless ease sad memories beguile,

Clipping the pinions of my mournful song,

The dirges due that to my sire belong. 143