Well, I will leave thee, but I shall report
To the whole army. They shall punish thee.
A wise discretion. Keep this prudent mind,
So mayest thou henceforth with a whole skin live. Exit Odysseus.
Ho! Philoctetes, son of Poeas, leave
The shelter of thy rocky home; come forth!
What means this hubbub at my cave again?
Why summon me, what would ye with me, Sirs?
Ha! I mislike the look of it. Are ye come
As heralds of new woes to crown the old?
Take heart and listen to the news I bring.
I am afraid. ’Thou camest once before;
I trusted thy fair words and ill I sped.
May not a man repent him?
Such thou wast,
No less fair-spoken, when thou wert about
To steal my bow, black treachery in thy heart.
But now another man, who fain would learn
Whether thou still persistest to stay here,
Or wilt embark with us.
Stop, say no more!
All that thou sayest will be wasted breath.
Art resolute?
More resolute than words can tell.
Well, I would gladly have persuaded thee
By argument, but if thou wilt not heed,
Why, I have done.
Thou needs must speak in vain.
How canst thou win me o’er to friendliness,
Thou who didst rob me of my life by fraud,
And then dost come to counsel me? Base son
Of noblest sire! Perdition on you all;
The Atridae first, Odysseus then, and thee!
Forbear thy curses. Take from me thy bow.
What say’st thou? Am I tricked a second time?
No, by the name of Zeus most high, I swear it.
O comfortable words, if they be true.
The deed shall follow to attest this truth
Reach hither thy right hand and take thy bow.
Hold! I protest ’fore Heaven, and in the name
Of the Atridae and the host forbid it.
Who spake, my son, was that Odysseus’ voice
I heard?
None other; and he’s hard at hand,
Ready to take thee back to Troy by force,
Whether it please Achilles’ son or no.
But at thy peril, if this shaft fly straight.
Hold, hold! in heaven’s name let not fly thy shaft!
Let go my hand in heaven’s name, dearest son!
I will not.
Why, O why didst thou prevent me
From slaying with my bow the man I hate?
That were dishonourable for thee and me. Exit Odysseus.
Well of one thing thou may’st be sure, the chiefs,
Those lying heralds of the Achaean host,
Are brave in words and cowards in the fight.
So be it. The bow is thine again, and now
Thou hast no grief or quarrel against me.
None, my brave boy, for thou hast proved this day
Thy race and lineage, not of Sisyphus,
But of Achilles, noblest once of men
In life, and now the noblest of the dead,
Sweet to my ears the praises of my sire,
And of myself; but now I crave of thee
A boon. What fates the gods allot to men
They needs must bear, but whoso hug their griefs,
As thou dost—who can pity or condone
Such self-tormentors? Thou, inexorable,
Wilt tolerate no counsel, deemest him
Who would admonish thee in love a foe;
Yet will I speak the truth, so help me Zeus!
Write on the table of thy memory
These words: thy sore plague is a heaven-sent doom;
With foot profane, in Chrysè’s roofless shrine,
Thou didst insult her tutelary snake.
For this sin wast thou stricken, and no relief
Canst win from thy affliction, whilst the sun
Shall run from East to West his daily course,
Before of thy free will thou com’st to Troy.
There shalt thou find our famed Asclepidae,
And healed by them, with thy bow’s aid and mine,
Shalt take and sack the towers of Ilium.
Thou askest how I know all this. Attend:
We have a Trojan prisoner, Helenus,
Chiefest of seers, who plainly prophesied
All I have told thee, and revealed besides
That, ere this summer passes, Troy must fall;
His life the forfeit if his word proved false.
Now that thou know’st this, yield with a good grace.
How fair a vision—to be singled out
As bravest of the host, and, first made whole
By healing hands, as conqueror of Troy,
Woe-wearied city, win undying fame!
O hateful life that keep’st me lingering on
In this vile world and wilt not let me join
The world of shades! Ah me! What can I do?
How turn a deaf ear to the kindly words
Of one who counsels well and seeks my good?
Shall I then yield? How, having yielded, face
The public gaze? Will not all turn from me?
Ye eyes, so long the witness of my wrongs,
How will ye brook to see me once again
Consorting with my torturers, the sons
Of Atreus and Odysseus, the arch-fiend?
’Tis not resentment for the past that stings,
But a prevision of the ills to come;
For when a mind is warped it takes the ply,
And evil-doers will be evil still.
Thee too, my son, I marvel much at thee;
Never should’st thou have gone thyself to Troy,
Nor sought to bring me thither. How could’st thou,
When they had robbed thee of thy father’s meed
And flouted thee?8 How can’st thou after that
Fight at their side thyself, or bid me fight?
Not so, my son, but do as thou hast sworn,
Convey me home; thyself in Scyros bide;
Leave those ill-doers to their evil doom.
Thus shalt thou win a double thanks from me
And from my sire; nor will men say of thee:
Abetting base men he himself is base.
Thy words are reasonable; natheless I
Would have thee trust my promise and the god’s,
And confidently sail with me, thy friend.
What! to the plains of Troy, to him I loathe,
The son of Atreus, with this cursèd foot?
Nay, but to kind physicians who will treat
Thy ulcered limb and heal thee of thy hurt.
O wondrous weird! What means this mystery?
One fraught with happy issue for us both.
Hast thou no fear
