For none who loved him now could have the heart
To see him still up-panting from his wound,
At either nostril, blackened gore and blood
Springing from that self-slaughter. Now, ah me!
What shall I do? What friend will lift thee up?920
And where is Teucros? How in timeliest need
Would he now come the body to lay out
Of this his fallen brother! Ο ill-starred
Aias, who, being what thou wast, hast fared
As now thou farest; e'en from bitterest foes
Thou now could'st claim the meed of righteous tears.
Chor. Ο man of many woes, 'twas thine, 'twas thine,
In stern unbending mood,
At the fixed hour to work
Ill doom of boundless griefs;
So all night long, till dawn,930
Thou poured'st dire complaint,
With spirit vexed to death,
Against the Atreidæ in thy bitter mood.
Great author of our sorrows was that day,
When for the arms of great Achilles rose
Strife of the brave in fight.
Tec. Ah me! Ah misery!
Chor. True griefs, I know too well, will pierce the heart.
Tec. Ah me! Ah misery!
Chor. I wonder not, Ο woman, thou should'st groan940
Yet more, but now of such a friend bereaved.
Tec. Thine 'tis to think; mine all too well to know.
Chor. I own it so.
Tec. Ah me! to what a yoke of bondage, child,
We now draw nigh, what watchers over us!
Chor. Ah! thou hast spoken now
Of deeds unutterable,
