That woeful strain of mourning at our loss.

Beloved Ajax, dearest of my kin,

Did fame not lie then? hast thou fared thus ill?

He hath perished, Teucer, and report spake true.

Then woe is me for my most grievous loss.

And since ’tis thus⁠—

Alas for me, alas!

The hour for mourning⁠—

O sharp pang of pain!

Is come, O Teucer, as thou say’st.

Ay me!

But his son⁠—where in Troy-land bides he now?

Alone beside the tent.

Then bring him quickly,

Lest of our foemen one should snatch him up,