When thus thou prayest, pray that I with thee

May die; why should I live when thou art dead?

O woe is me!

Darkness, my light!

O nether gloom to me more bright

Than midday, take, O take me to your care!

I am too vile to share

The kindly aid of mortals, and the gods

Have left me. Nay, the Warrior Maid, Zeus-born,

Laughs me to scorn;

I quail beneath her rods.

Whither to fly? What hope of rest is left,

If of my ancient fame bereft,

Dead as these slaughtered sheep around me slain,

A madman’s crown I gain,

While all the host at my devoted head

Would strike, and smite me dead?

Ah me that one so good should utter words

That hitherto he ne’er had deigned to breathe!

Paths of the roaring waves,

Ye salt sea caves

And pastures by the shore,

Where long, too long I roam

In Troy-land, far from home;

Me shall ye see no more⁠—

No more in life. Give ear

All who can hear.