Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/233



My mother, not a mother save in name.

By blows or petty tyrannies or how?

By blows and tyrannies of every kind.

And is there none to help or stay her hand?

None; there was one, the man whose dust I hold.

Poor maid! my pity’s stirred at sight of thee.

Thou art the first who ever pitied me.

I am the first to feel a common woe.

What, canst thou be some kinsman from afar?

If these are friends who hear us, I would answer.

Yes, they are friends; thou needst not fear to speak.

Give back this urn, and then I’ll tell thee all.

Ask not so hard a thing, good sir, I pray.

Do as I bid thee; thou shalt not repent it.

O, I adjure thee, rob me not of that

The most I prize on earth. 221