Page:Sophocles - Seven Plays, 1900.djvu/72

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. Well, we may learn, if there be aught unseen

Suppressed within her grief-distempered soul,

By going within the palace. Ye say well:

There is a danger, even in too much silence.

. Ah! look where sadly comes our lord the King,

Bearing upon his arm a monument—

If we may speak it—of no foreign woe,

But of his own infirmity the fruit.

. O error of my insensate soul,

Stubborn, and deadly in the fateful end!

O ye who now behold

Slayer and slain of the same kindred blood!

O bitter consequence of seeming-wise decree!

Alas, my son!

Strange to the world wert thou, and strange the fate

That took thee off, that slew thee; woe is me!

Not for thy rashness, but my folly. Ah me!

. Alas for him who sees the right too late!

. Alas!

I have learnt it now. But then upon my head

Some God had smitten with dire weight of doom;

And plunged me in a furious course, woe is me!

Discomforting and trampling on my joy.

Woe! for the bitterness of mortal pain!

. My lord and master. Thou art master here

Of nought but sorrows. One within thine arms

Thou bear’st with thee, and in thy palace hall

Thou hast possession of another grief,

Which soon thou shalt behold.

. What more of woe,

Or what more woeful, sounds anew from thee?

. The honoured mother of that corse, thy queen,

Is dead, and bleeding with a new-given wound.