Chorus.
Stroph. II.
I pity him in truth,
How he with none to care of all that live,
With no face near that he has known in youth,
Still dwells alone where none may succour give,
Plagued with a plague full sore:
And as each chance comes on him, evermore
Wanders forth wretchedly,
Ah me, how is 't he still endures to live
In this his misery?
Ο struggles that the Gods to mortals give!
Ο miserable race,
Of those whose lives have failed to find the middle place!
Antistroph. II.
He, born of ancient sires,
And falling short of none that went before,
Now lies bereaved of all that life requires,
In lonely grief, none near him evermore,
Dwelling with dappled deer,
Or rough and grisly beasts, and called to bear
Both pain and hunger still;
Bearing sore weight of overwhelming ill,
Evil that none may heal,
And bitter wailing cry that doth its woe reveal.
Neoptolemos.
Nought of all this is marvellous to me,
For, if my soul has any power to see.
These sufferings from the ruthless Chryse sent
Come with divine intent;
And all that now he bears
