To Eriboea and to Telamon,

That he may comfort their old age till death.

And for my arms, let no Greek arbiter

Of games (so bid him) nor my venomous foe

Set them as prize for the Achaean host.

But this, the shield from which thou took’st thy name,

Take this, my son, this sevenfold, spear-proof targe,

Take it and wield it by the close-stitched thongs.

My other arms shall lie with me interred.

Quick, take the child, delay not; close the doors,

Nor at the tent side moan and make lament.

In sooth a woman is a tearful thing.

Quick, make all fast: ’tis not a skilful leech

Who mumbles charms o’er ills that need the knife.

I tremble as I mark this eager haste:

Thy words are sharp as swords and like me not.

O my lord Ajax, what is in thy heart?

Question not, ask not; be discreet and wise.

Ah me, I quail, I faint. O by thy child,

By heaven I implore thee, fail us not.

Thou art importunate; know’st not that I

Henceforward owe no duty to the gods?

Oh hush, blaspheme not!