Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/363

Rh The man that smote him, he beguiled my soul;

And I, too late, when knowledge nought avails,

That knowledge gain. For, if my soul errs not,

I, I alone (ah me!) shall work his death;

For well I know the piercing dart sore vexed

E'en Cheiron, though a God, and, where it smites,

Lays low in death all monsters. Can it be

That this black venom, oozing from his wounds,

With blood commingled, shall not slay him too?

So I at least must deem; yet deem I too

If he shall die, that I shall die with him

By that same death-stroke; since for one to live

With evil fame who makes her chiefest boast

Not to be evil, that is hard to bear.

Chor. We needs must shrink at thought of dreadful deeds,

Yet should not count too soon on good or ill.

Deian. Not so, not so; in schemes that are not good

There is no hope to give one confidence.

Chor. And yet for those who sin not wilfully

Anger is softened; and that case is thine.

Deian. Such words one well might speak, who does not share

The ill, on whom no evil presses close.

Chor. 'Twere well that thou should'st cease all further speech,

Unless thou sayest aught to this thy son;

For here he comes who went to seek his sire.