Thou art in misery. Tell me- wilt thou not?
What is it?
O my son! I can no longer
Conceal it from thee. Oh! I die, I perish;
By the great gods let me implore thee, now
This moment, if thou hast a sword. oh! strike,
Cut off this painful limb, and end my being!
What can this mean, that unexpected thus
It should torment thee?
Know you not, my son?
What is the cause?
Can you not guess it?
That's stranger still.
My son, my son
This new attack is terrible indeed!
'Tis inexpressible! Have pity on me!
What shall I do?
Do not be terrified,
And leave me. Its returns are regular,
And like the traveller, when its appetite
Is satisfied, it will depart. Oh! oh!
Thou art oppressed with ills on every side.
Give me thy hand. Come, wilt thou lean upon me?
No; but these arrows take; preserve 'em for me.
A little while, till I grow better. Sleep
Is coming on me, and my pains will cease.
Let me be quiet. If meantime our foes
Surprise thee, let nor force nor artifice
Deprive thee of the great, the precious trust
I have reposed in thee; that were ruin
To thee, and to thy friend.
Be not afraid-
No hands but mine shall touch them; give them to me.
Receive them, son; and let it be thy prayer
They bring not woes on thee, as they have done
To me and to Alcides.
(PHILOCTETES gives him the bow and arrows.)
May the gods
Forbid it ever! May they guide our course
And speed our prosperous sails!
Alas! my son,
I fear thy vows are vain. Behold my blood
Flows from the wound? Oh how it pains me! Now