Where are ye, who, of all
That Hellas hers doth call,
Are found most evil, reckless of the right?
For whom I wore my life,
In ceaseless, dreary strife,
Slaying by land and sea dread forms of might;
Yet now to him who lies
In these sharp agonies,
Not one will bring the fire
Or sword, wherewith to work his heart's desire;
And none will come and smite
His head to death's dark night,
And end his misery;
Ah me! fie on you, fie.
Elder.
Come, boy, thou son of him who lieth there,
Come thou and help, the work o'ertasketh me;
Thine eye is young and clear;
Thy vision more than mine to save and free.
Hyllos.
I lend my hand to lift;
But neither from within, nor yet without,
May I a life forgetting pain work out;
Zeus only gives that gift.
Heracles.
Boy, boy! where, where art thou?
Come, lift me up; yea, this way raise thou me.
Oh me! Ο cursed Fates!
It leaps again, it leaps upon me now,
That scourge that desolates,
Fierce, stem, inexorable agony.
