CH.  Who then will tell me, who?  What hard sea-liver, 1
        What toiling fisher in his sleepless quest,
    What Mysian nymph, what oozy Thracian river,
        Hath seen our wanderer of the tameless breast? 
            Where? tell me where! 
    ’Tis hard that I, far-toiling voyager,
          Crossed by some evil wind,
          Cannot the haven find,
    Nor catch his form that flies me, where? ah! where?

TEC. (behind).  Oh, woe is me! woe, woe!

CH.  A. Who cries there from the covert of the grove?

TEC.  O boundless misery!

CH.  B. Steeped in this audible sorrow I behold
Tecmessa, poor fate-burdened bride of war.

TEC.  Friends, I am spoiled, lost, ruined, overthrown!

CH.  A. What ails thee now?

TEC.  See where our Aias lies, but newly slain,
Fallen on his sword concealed within the ground,

CH.  Woe for my hopes of home! 
        Aias, my lord, thou hast slain
      Thy ship-companion on the salt sea foam. 
        Alas for us, and thee,
        Child of calamity!

TEC.  So lies our fortune.  Well may’st thou complain.

CH.  A. Whose hand employed he for the deed of blood?

TEC.  His own, ’tis manifest.  This planted steel,
Fixed by his hand, gives verdict from his breast.

CH.  Woe for my fault, my loss! 
        Thou hast fallen in blood alone,
      And not a friend to cross
        Or guard thee.  I, deaf, senseless as a stone,
Left all undone.  Oh, where, then, lies the stern
Aias, of saddest name, whose purpose none might turn?

TEC.  No eye shall see him.  I will veil him round
With this all covering mantle; since no heart
That loved him could endure to view him there,
With ghastly expiration spouting forth
From mouth and nostrils, and the deadly wound,
The gore of his self slaughter.  Ah, my lord! 
What shall I do?  What friend will carry thee? 
Oh, where is Teucer!  Timely were his hand,
Might he come now to smooth his brother’s corse. 
O thou most noble, here ignobly laid,
Even enemies methinks must mourn thy fate!

CH.  Ah! ’twas too clear thy firm knit thoughts would fashion, 2
        Early or late, an end of boundless woe! 
      Such heaving groans, such bursts of heart-bruised passion,
        Midnight and morn, bewrayed the fire below. 
            ‘The Atridae might beware!’
    A plenteous fount of pain was opened there,
            What time the strife was set,
            Wherein the noblest met,
    Grappling the golden prize that kindled thy despair!

TEC.  Woe, woe is me!

CH.  Deep sorrow wrings thy soul, I know it well.

TEC.  O woe, woe, woe!

CH.  Thou may’st prolong thy moan, and be believed,
Thou that hast lately lost so true a friend.