You see one who knows nothing of your story. PHILOKTETES Then I am truly damned. The gods must surely hate me for not even a rumor to have come to Greece of how I live here. The wicked men who abandoned me keep their secret, then, and laugh, while the disease that dwells within me grows, and grows stronger. My son, child of great Achilles, you may yet have heard of me somehow: I am Philoktetes, Poias's son, the master of Herakles's weapons. Agamemnon, Menelaos, and Odysseus marooned me here, with no one to help me, as I wasted away with a savage disease, struck down by a viper's hideous bite. After I was bitten, we put in here on the way from Chryse to rejoin the fleet and they cast me ashore. After our rough passage, they were glad to see me fall asleep on the seacliffs, inside this cave. Then they went off, leaving with me rags and breadcrumbs, and few of each. May the same soon befall them. Think of it, child: how I awoke to find them gone and myself left alone. Think of how I cried, how I cursed myself, when I knew my ship had gone off with them, and not a man was left to help me overcome this illness. I could see nothing before me but grief and pain, and those in abundance. Time ran its course. I have had to make my own life, to be my own servant in this tiny cave. I seek out birds to fill my stomach, and shoot them down. After I let loose a tautly drawn bolt, I drag myself along on this stinking foot. When I had to drink the water that pours from this spring, in icy winter, I had to break up wood, crippled as I am, and melt the ice alone. I dragged myself around and did it. And if the fire went out, I had to sit, and grind stone against stone until a spark sprang up to save my life. This roof, if I have fire, at least gives me a home, gives me all that I need to stay alive except release from my anguish. Come, child, let me tell you of this island. No one comes here willingly. There is no anchorage here, nor any place to land, profit in trade, and be received. Intelligent people know not to come here, but sometimes they do, against their will. In the long time I have been here, it was bound to happen. When those people put in, they pitied me--- or pretended to, at least---and gave me new clothes and a bit of food. But when I asked for a homeward passage, they would never take me with them. It is my tenth year of hunger and the ravaging illness that I feed with my flesh. The Atreids and Odysseus did this to me. May the Olympian gods give them pain in return. CHORUS I am like those who came here before. I pity you, unlucky Philoktetes. NEOPTOLEMOS And I am a witness to your words. I know you speak truly, for I have known them, the evil Atreids and violent Odysseus. PHILOKTETES Do you too have a claim against the all-destroying house of Atreus? Have they made you suffer? Is that why you are angry? NEOPTOLEMOS