Neo. What hath so suddenly arisen, that thus
Thou mak’st ado and groanest o’er thyself?
Phi. Thou knowest.
Neo. What know I?
Phi. O! thou knowest, my son!
Neo. I know not.
Phi. How? Not know? Ah me! Pain, pain!
Neo. Thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore.
Phi. Sore? ’Tis unutterable. Have pity on me!
Neo. What shall I do?
Phi. Do not in fear forsake me.
This wandering evil comes in force again,
Hungry as ere it fed.
Neo. O hapless one!
Thrice hapless in thy manifold distress!
What wilt thou? Shall I raise thee on mine arm?
Phi. Nay, but receiving from my hand the bow,
As late thou didst desire me, keep it safe
And guard it, till the fury of my pain
Pass over me and cease. For when ’tis spent,
Slumber will seize me, else it ne’er would end.
I must sleep undisturbed. But if meanwhile
They come,—by Heaven I charge thee, in no wise,
Willingly nor perforce, let them have this!
Else thou wilt be the slayer of us both;
Of me thy suppliant, and of thyself.
Neo. Fear not my care. No hand shall hold these arms
But thine and mine. Give, and Heaven bless the deed!
Phi. I give them; there, my son! But look to Heaven
And pray no envy smite thee, nor such bane
In having them, as fell on me and him
Who bore them formerly.
Neo. O grant it, Gods!
And grant us fair and happy voyage, where’er
Our course is shaped and righteous Heaven shall guide.
Phi. Ah! but I fear, my son, thy prayer is vain:
For welling yet again from depths within,
This gory ooze is dripping. It will come!
I know it will. O, foot, torn helpless thing,
