Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/483

Rh Who on these high lawns fed,

No more from this my home

Will ye allure me forth.

I wield not in my hands

The strength I had of old

(Ah me!) from those my darts;

Full carelessly this place

Is barred against you now,

No longer fearful; come ye, now 'tis well

That ye in turn should glut your ravenous maw

With this my spotted flesh.

Soon I shall end my life; for whence can I

Find means withal to live?

Who thus can feed upon the empty winds,

Gaining no more what earth brings forth to men,

The giver of their life?

Chor. Ah, by the Gods, if thou dost still regard

A true friend's claim on thee,

Draw near to him who draweth near to thee

With every word of friendliness; but know,

Know well, it rests with thee

To 'scape from this thy grief.

Sad is 't to feed that woe,

And, yet unschooled, to bear the thousand ills

That with it company.

Phil. Again, again thou hintest at a grief

That vexed me sore long since;

Thou best of all that ever tarried here,

Why did'st thou lay me low? why work my doom?

Chor. Why speak' st thou thus?

Phil. In that thou thought'st to take me once again

To Troas, which I hate.

Chor. This seems to me far better.

Phil. Leave me; leave.