Who on these high lawns fed,
No more from this my home
Will ye allure me forth.
I wield not in my hands1150
The strength I had of old
(Ah me!) from those my darts;
Full carelessly this place
Is barred against you now,
No longer fearful; come ye, now 'tis well
That ye in turn should glut your ravenous maw
With this my spotted flesh.
Soon I shall end my life; for whence can I
Find means withal to live?
Who thus can feed upon the empty winds,1160
Gaining no more what earth brings forth to men,
The giver of their life?
Chor. Ah, by the Gods, if thou dost still regard
A true friend's claim on thee,
Draw near to him who draweth near to thee
With every word of friendliness; but know,
Know well, it rests with thee
To 'scape from this thy grief.
Sad is 't to feed that woe,
And, yet unschooled, to bear the thousand ills
That with it company.
Phil. Again, again thou hintest at a grief1170
That vexed me sore long since;
Thou best of all that ever tarried here,
Why did'st thou lay me low? why work my doom?
Chor. Why speak' st thou thus?
Phil. In that thou thought'st to take me once again
To Troas, which I hate.
Chor. This seems to me far better.
Phil. Leave me; leave.
