Thou gav'st to bear me to my native soil.
Do this, my friend, remain thyself at Scyros,
And leave these wretches to be wretched still.
Thus shalt thou merit double thanks, from me
And from thy father; nor by succour given
To vile betrayers prove thyself as vile.
Thou sayst most truly. Yet confide in heaven,
Trust to thy friend, and leave this hated place.
Leave it! For whom? For Troy and the Atreidae?
These wounds forbid it.
They shall all be healed,
Where I will carry thee.
An idle tale
Thou tellst me. surely; dost thou not?
What best may serve us both.
But, speaking thus,
Dost thou not fear the' offended gods?
Why fear them?
Can I offend the gods by doing good?
What good? To whom? To me or to the' Atreidae?
I am thy friend, and therefore would persuade thee.
And therefore give me to my foes.
Let not misfortunes thus transport thy soul
To rage and bitterness.
Thou wouldst destroy me.
Thou knowst me not.
I know th' Atreidae well,
Who left me here.
They did; yet they perhaps,
E'en they, O Philoctetes! may preserve thee.
I never will to Troy.
What's to be done?
Since I can ne'er persuade thee, I submit;
Live on in misery.
Then let me suffer;
Suffer I must; but, oh! perform thy promise;
Think on thy plighted faith, and guard me home
Instant, my friend, nor ever call back Troy
To my remembrance; I have felt enough
From Troy already.
Let us go; prepare!
O glorious sound!