Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/467

Rh Phil. [Groaning heavily.] Ah! ah! ah!

Neop. What means this cry?

Phil. 'Tis nought, my son; go on.

Neop. Art thou in pain from onset of disease?

Phil. Not so, not so; I think 'tis easier now.

Ye Gods! ye Gods!

Neop. Why groan'st thou thus, and callest on the Gods?

Phil. That they may come with power to soothe and save.

Ah! ah! ah! [Groaning in agony.]

Neop. What ails thee? Wilt thou thus thy silence keep,

And wilt not tell? 'Tis clear some ill is on thee.

Phil. I perish, Ο my son, and cannot hide

The evil from thee. Oh, it darts, it darts.

Ο misery! Ο miserable me!

I perish, Ο my son; it eats me up.

Oh! by the Gods, my son, if thou hast there

A sword at hand, smite thou this foot of mine,

And lop it off at once. Care not for life:

Come, boy, be quick.

Neop. And what new sudden grief

Is this for which thou mak'st this wailing and lament?

Phil. Thou know'st, my son.

Neop. What is 't?

Phil. Thou knowest, boy.

Neop. What is it? I know not.

Phil. How can it be

Thou dost not know it well? Ah me! Ah me! [Gasping, as before.

Neop. Sore is the growing weight of thy disease.

Phil. Yea, sore beyond all words: nay, pity me.