I know not how, in case so desperate, To bid thee speak, or bid thee to refrain. AJAX. Alas! who would have thought my name would prove [Footnote: There is a play upon the name [Greek: Aias], the first syllable of which is an ejaculation of sorrow unreproduceable in English.] So correspondent to the bearer's state? Once and again that syllable of woe, Being with woe o'erwhelmed, I may repeat. My father once, from this Idaean land, Crowned with the prize of valour by the host, And full of glory, to his home returned; While I, his son, coming to this same land Of Troy with prowess no whit less than his, After achievements not less glorious, Meet from the Argives scorn and contumely. And yet of this much am I well assured, That had Achilles living been the judge To whom his arm and valours prize should go, Mine, and mine only, would those arms have been. But now the Atridae to a cunning knave, My exploits misprized, have surrendered them. And had not strong delusion warped my sense, And clouded o'er my vision, never more Would they have an unrighteous sentence given. But that stern-eyed, resistless child of Zeus, Just as I put forth my avenging hand, Brought madness on me, made me miss my aim, And dye my sword with blood of slaughtered kine. They have escaped, and they will mock at me, Through no default of mine. When deity Blasts the strong arm, weakness may strength defy. What now am I to do, since of the gods I am abhorred, of the Hellenic host Hated, to Troy and all this land a foe? Shall I to their own quarrel leave the Kings, Unmoor, and homeward cross the Aegean wave? How can I face my father Telamon? How can he bear to look upon the son Who comes to him disgraced, without the prize, When glory's wreath has circled his own brow? That may not be. Then shall I fling myself Alone upon the Trojan battlements, And having done some deed of valour, fall? That might to the two Kings some joy afford. That, too, is naught. On something I must think Whereby I to my agéd sire may prove That from his loins sprung no unworthy son; For vile it is to crave for longer life, When longer life brings no release from ill. How can addition to the sum of days, When all is but a respite, joy bestow? I would not give a doit for any man Who lets his heart be fired with idle hopes. To live with honour, or with honour die, Alone becomes the noble. I have done. CHORUS. None, Ajax, will pretend that these thy words Are not thy own, or come not from thy heart; But now control thyself. Discard these thoughts, And let the counsels of thy friends prevail. TECMESSA.