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Now stript of all the things

That make up life, lies here, apart from all,

With dappled deer, or beasts

With shaggy manes, still dwelling in his pain,

In hunger fierce, with grief

That none can heal; and Echo far and wide,

With ever-babbling cry,

Repeats his wail of bitter, loud lament. Neop. I wonder at none of these things;

If I err not, they come from a God,

From Chryse, ruthless of soul.

And now the woes that he bears,

With none to care for him near,

From some God needs must they come,

That he may not Troïa destroy

With darts of Gods none can resist,

Ere the time run on to its close,

When, as they say, it is doomed

To be by those weapons subdued.

Chor. Hush, hush, Ο boy!

Neop. What is this?

Chor. The sounds of step we heard,

As of some man who drags his weary way,

Or here or there around;

There falls, ah yes, there falls upon my ears

Clear sound of one who creeps,

Slow and reluctant, on the well-worn track.

It is not hid from me

That bitter cry that cometh from afar,

Wearing man's strength away;

For very clearly comes his wailing cry.

But now, Ο boy, 'tis time