TEC. There, then; I open to your view the form Of Aias, and his fortunes as they are. [AIAS _is discovered_ AI. Dear comrades of the deep, whose truth and love I 1 Stand forth alone unbroken in my woe, Behold what gory sea Of storm-lashed agony Doth round and round me flow! CH. (_to_ TEC.) Too true thy witness: for the fact cries out Wild thoughts were here and Reason's lamp extinct. AI. Strong helpers of sea-speed, whose nimble hand I 2 Plied hither the salt oar with circling stroke, No shepherd there was found To give the avenging wound. Come, lay me with the flock! CH. Speak no rash word! nor curing ill with ill Augment the plague of this calamity. AI. Mark ye the brave and bold, II 1 Whom none could turn of old, When once he set his face to the fierce fight? Now beasts that thought no harm Have felt this puissant arm. O laughter of my foes! O mockery of my might! TEC. Aias, my lord! I entreat thee, speak not so! AI. Thou here! Away! begone, and trouble me not! O! O! CH. Be softened! bear a steadier mind! AI. O heaven-accursed hand That let the ruffians go, But falling 'midst the horn'd and bleating band, Made darkling blood-streams flow! CH. Why vex thy heart with what is over and done? Do what we may, this ne'er will alter now. AI. Child of Laertes old, II 2 Thou that dost still behold And still contrive all shapes of monstrous ill, Winding in foulest ways Through the army's sinful maze,-- Now even for pleasure thou may'st laugh thy fill. CH. Laughter and tears are in the gift of God. AI. Ay, might I see him, though thus broken,--ay me! Even yet-- CH. Nay, vaunt not. Look where thou art fallen. AI. Source where my life-blood springs, O Zeus, might I but slay That crafty plague, with those twin-sceptred kings, Then breathe my life away! TEC. Pray thus, and pray that I too be no more! If thou wert gone, what were my life to me? AI. Darkness! my only light! III 1 O nether gloom, to me Brighter than morning to the wakeful eye! Take me to dwell with thee. Take me! What help? Zeus' daughter with fell might Torments me sore. I may not look on high, Nor to the tribe of momentary men.-- Oh, whither, then, Should it avail to fly? Ah! whither should I go and stay? All here is ruin. This mad prey Shames me for evermore: Vengeance is at the door; Yea, all the Achaean host, with armed hand, Is ready at command To slay me o'er and o'er. TEC. Woe 's me! to hear from one so good and true Words he had scorned to utter in past days.