O listen, I adjure thee, and be ruled.

Wretch to let those fiends, my foes,

Slip, while on the flock my blows

And the goodly cattle rained,

Till with their dark blood all the house was stained.

Why vex thyself for what is past recall?

What’s done is done and naught can alter it.

Spy of the time, apt tool for any guile,

Of all the host the sublest knave, most vile,

Son of Laertes, loud and long, I trow,

Thou laughest in malignant triumph now.

Laughter or mourning comes as God ordains.

Would I could see him, shattered though I be!

Ah me!

No boastful words; see’st not thy piteous case?

O Zeus, my grand sire, would that I

Might slay that knave, my bane,

That arch-dissembler and the generals twain.

Then let me die!