Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/429

Rh

My locks all wet with the dews,

Keepsake of Troïa the sad.

Till now against terrors of night,

And sharp arrows a bulwark and stay,

Was Aias, the mighty and strong:

Now he, too, a victim is gone

To the God that ruleth in gloom;

What joy remaineth for me?

Would I were there, where the rock,

Thick-wooded and washed by the waves,

Hangs o'er the face of the deep,

Under Sunion's broad jutting peak,

That there we might hail, once again,

Athens, the holy, the blest.

Teu. Lo! I have hastened, seeing our general come,

Our Agamemnon, speeding on his way,

And plain it is he comes to speak hard words.

Agam. They tell me that thou darest fearful words

To vent against us with impunity,

Thou, yes, e'en thou, of captive mistress born;

A noble mother truly can'st thou boast,

That thou dost speak so loftily, and walk

On tip-toe proudly, who, being nought, dost strive

For him who is as nothing, and dost swear

We did not come to rule the host or fleet,