ATH.  A fair intention!  But resolve me this: 
Hast dyed thy falchion deep in Argive blood?

AI.  There is my boast; that charge I’ll ne’er deny.

ATH.  Have Atreus’ sons felt thy victorious might?

AI.  They have.  No more they’ll make a scorn of me!

ATH.  I take it, then, they are dead.

AI.  Ay, now they are dead,
Let them arise and rob me of mine arms!

ATH.  Good.  Next inform us of Laertes’ son;
How stands his fortune?  Hast thou let him go?

AI.  The accursed fox!  Dost thou inquire of him?

ATH.  Ay, of Odysseus, thy late adversary.

AI.  He sits within, dear lady, to my joy,
Bound; for I mean him not just yet to die.

ATH.  What fine advantage wouldst thou first achieve?

AI.  First, tie him to a pillar of my hall—­

ATH.  Poor wretch!  What torment wilt thou wreak on him?

AI.  Then stain his back with scourging till he die.

ATH.  Nay, ’tis too much.  Poor caitiff!  Not the scourge!

AI.  Pallas, in all things else have thou thy will,
But none shall wrest Odysseus from this doom.

ATH.  Well, since thou art determined on the deed,
Spare nought of thine intent:  indulge thy hand!

AI. (waving the bloody scourge). 
I go!  But thou, I charge thee, let thine aid
Be evermore like valiant as to-day. [Exit

ATH.  The gods are strong, Odysseus.  Dost thou see? 
What man than Aias was more provident,
Or who for timeliest action more approved?

OD.  I know of none.  But, though he hates me sore,
I pity him, poor mortal, thus chained fast
To a wild and cruel fate,—­weighing not so much
His fortune as mine own.  For now I feel
All we who live are but an empty show
And idle pageant of a shadowy dream.

ATH.  Then, warned by what thou seest, be thou not rash
To vaunt high words toward Heaven, nor swell thy port
Too proudly, if in puissance of thy hand
Thou passest others, or in mines of wealth. 
Since Time abases and uplifts again
All that is human, and the modest heart
Is loved by Heaven, who hates the intemperate will. [Exeunt

CHORUS (entering). 
      Telamonian child, whose hand
      Guards our wave-encircled land,
      Salamis that breasts the sea,
      Good of thine is joy to me;
      But if One who reigns above
      Smite thee, or if murmurs move
      From fierce Danaaens in their hate
      Full of threatening to thy state,
      All my heart for fear doth sigh,
      Shrinking like a dove’s soft eye.