Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Jebb 1917).djvu/219

967—989] All that he yearned to win hath he made his own,—the death for which he longed. Over this man, then, wherefore should they triumph? His death concerns the gods, not them—no, verily. Then let Odysseus revel in empty taunts. Ajax is for them no more: to me he hath left anguish and mourning—and is gone.

Woe, woe is me!

. Hush—methinks I hear the voice of Tcucer, raised in a strain that hath regard to this dire woe.

. Beloved Ajax, brother whose face was so dear to me—hast thou indeed fared as rumour holds?

. He hath perished, Teucer: of that be sure.

. Woe is me, then, for my heavy fate!

. Know that thus it stands—. Hapless, hapless that I am!

. And thou hast cause to mourn. . O fierce and sudden blow!

. Thou sayest but too truly, Teucer. . Ay me!—But tell me of yon man's child—where shall I find him in the land of Troy?

. Alone, by the tent.

. (To .) Then bring him hither with all speed, lest some foeman snatch him up, as a whelp from a lioness forlorn! Away—haste—bear help! 'Tis all men's wont to triumph o'er the dead, when they lie low.

[Exit.