Chorus
Tecmessa, daughter of Teleutas, dread
Thy tidings of our master thus distraught.
Ajax
Woe, woe is me!
Tecmessa
Worse is to come, I fear me. Heard ye not
The voice of Ajax—that heartrending cry?
Ajax
Woe, woe is me!
Chorus
’Tis a fresh fit, methinks, or else he groans
At sight of all the ills his frenzy wrought.
Ajax
My son, my son!
Tecmessa
Ah me! Eurysaces, ’tis for thee he calls.
What would he? Where art thou, my son? ah me!
Ajax
Ho Teucer! where is Teucer? Will his raid
End never? And the while I am undone!
Chorus
He seems himself again. Quick, ope the door.
Perchance the sight of us his humble friends
May bring him to a soberer mood.
Tecmessa
I open,