Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Jebb 1917).djvu/363

735—762] . No indeed,—no, I think I am better just now.—Ye gods!

. Why groanest thou thus, and callest on the gods?

. That they may come to us with power to save and soothe.—Ah me!—ah me!

. What ails thee? Speak,—persist not in this silence:—'tis plain that something is amiss with thee.

. I am lost, my son—I can never hide my trouble from you:—ah, it pierces me, it pierces! O misery,—O wretched that I am! I am undone, my son—it devours me.—Oh, for the gods' love, if thou hast a sword ready to thy hand, strike at my heel,—shear it off straightway—heed not my life! Quick, quick, my son!

. And what new thing hath come on thee so suddenly, that thou bewailest thyself with such loud laments?

. Thou knowest, my son. . What is it? . Thou knowest, boy. . What is the matter with thee? I know not. How canst thou help knowing? Oh, oh!

. Dread, indeed, is the burden of the malady.

. Aye, dread beyond telling. Oh, pity me!

. What shall I do? . Forsake me not in fear. This visitant comes but now and then,—when she hath been sated, haply, with her roamings.

. Ah, hapless one! Hapless, indeed, art thou found in all manner of woe! Shall I take hold of thee, or lend thee a helping hand?

. No, no:—but take this bow of mine, I pray