Aias.
Ο wretched fool, whose hands have failed to keep
My foe's accursèd brood,
And falling on horn'd kine and goodly sheep,
Poured out their purple blood!
Chorus.
Why wilt thou grieve at what is past and done?
These things can never be but as they are.
Aias.
Ο thou, who spy'st out all,
Thou son of Lartios, tool for all things vile,
Of all the host to shame the meanest thrall,
For joy of heart, I trow, thou now wilt smile.
Chorus.
It is through God we all or smile or wail.
Aias.
Ah! might I see him near,
Sore vexèd though I be with grief and fear. . . .
Chorus.
Hush thy rash speech. What! See'st not where thou art?
Aias.
Ο Zeus, my father's God! Ah would that I,
Might on that scoundrel foe
And those two kings my vengeance work, and die
Myself by that same blow!
