Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/481

Rh Ο woe, woe, woe!

Ο home most full of grief,

My grief, me miserable!

What now shall come to me

As day succeeds to day?

Whence shall I, in my woe,

Find hope of food to live?

Ah, now the swift-winged birds

Will soar in loftiest flight,

High through the whistling wind;

For I am powerless.

Chor. Thou, thou thyself, Ο man of many woes,

Hast brought them on thyself;

It is not from a Power above thine own

This ill fate falls on thee,

Since thou, when wisdom was at hand, didst choose,

Thy better genius scorned, to praise the worse.

Phil. O miserable me!

Outraged with foulest wrong,

Who for the years to come

In woe, no helper near,

Shall henceforth, dwelling here, consume away,

(Ah me! ah me!)

Gaining no food for life

From those my swift-winged darts,

With firm hands grasping them;

But unsuspected words

Of guileful mind deceived;

Would I might see the man

Whose heart devised these things,

Bearing these pains of mine

As long as I have borne!

Chor. Fate was it, fate that cometh of the Gods,