Quit, we implore,

Thy tent upon the shore.

Rouse thee, my King, where’er thou sittest brooding;

Too long thou mak’st the stour of battle cease,

While in the camp red ruin flames to heaven,

And, like the west wind soughing in the trees,

Unchecked the mockery goes

Of thy o’erweening foes.

My woe no respite knows!

Crew of Ajax, men who trace

Back to Erechtheus your famed race,

Woe is ours who muse upon

The far-off house of Telamon;

For our lord of dreaded might

Stricken lies in desperate plight,

And his soul is dark as night.

What the change so grievous, say,

Of the morn from yesterday?

Daughter of Teleutas, tell;

Stalwart Ajax loves thee well,

Thee his spear-won bride; ’tis thine

What befalls him to divine.

Ah, how tell a tale so drear?

Sad as death what thou shalt hear

Of great Ajax, undone quite,

Smit with madness, in the night.

Look within and see the floor

Reeking with his victims’ gore;