want,
    No heart whereto his pangs he might deplore. 
    None who, whene’er the gory flow
    Was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow,
    Or cull from teeming Earth some genial plant
    To allay the anguish of malignant pain
    And soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe. 
    Like infant whom the nurse lets go,
    With tottering movement here and there,
    He crawled for comfort, whensoe’er
His soul-devouring plague relaxed its cruel strain.

Not fed with foison of all-teeming Earth II 1
Whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men,
But only now and then
With winged things, by his wing’d shafts brought low,
He stayed his hunger from his bow. 
Poor soul, that never through ten years of dearth
Had pleasure from the fruitage of the vine,
But seeking to some standing pool,
Nor clear nor cool,
Foul water heaved to head for lack of heartening wine.

But now, consorted with the hero’s child, II 2
He winneth greatness and a joyful change;
Over the water wild
Borne by a friendly bark beneath the range
Of Oeta, where Spercheius fills
Wide channels winding among lovely hills
Haunted of Melian nymphs, till he espies
The roof-tree of his father’s hall,
And high o’er all
Shines the bronze shield of him, whose home is in the skies[6].
[NEOPTOLEMUS comes out of the cave, followed
by PHILOCTETES in pain

NEO.  Prithee, come on!  Why dost thou stand aghast,
Voiceless, and thus astonied in thine air?

PHI.  Oh! oh!

NEO.  What?

PHI.  Nothing.  Come my son, fear nought.

NEO.  Is pain upon thee?  Hath thy trouble come?

PHI.  No pain, no pain!  ’Tis past; I am easy now. 
Ye heavenly powers!

NEO.  Why dost thou groan aloud,
And cry to Heaven?

PHI.  To come and save.  Kind Heaven! 
Oh, oh!

NEO.  What is ’t?  Why silent?  Wilt not speak? 
I see thy misery.

PHI.  Oh!  I am lost, my son! 
I cannot hide it from you.  Oh! it shoots,
It pierces.  Oh unhappy!  Oh! my woe! 
I am lost, my son, I am devoured.  Oh me! 
Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Pain! pain!  Oh pain! oh pain! 
Child, if a sword be to thine hand, smite hard,
Shear off my foot! heed not my life!  Quick, come!

NEO.  What hath so suddenly arisen, that thus
Thou mak’st ado and groanest o’er thyself?

PHI.  Thou knowest.

NEO.  What know I?

PHI.  O! thou knowest, my son!

NEO.  I know not.

PHI.  How?  Not know?  Ah me!  Pain, pain!

NEO.  Thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore.

PHI.  Sore?  ’Tis unutterable.  Have pity on me!

NEO.  What shall I do?