he! who thinks his luck secure and so rejoices; for fortune, like a madman in her moods, springs towards this man, then towards that; and none ever experiences the same unchanging luck.
Cho. Lo! all is ready and they are bringing at thy bidding from the spoils of Troy garniture to put upon the dead.
Hec. Ah! my child, 'tis not as victor o'er thy comrades with horse or bow,—customs Troy esteems, without pursuing them to excess,—that Hector's mother decks thee now with ornaments from the store that once was thine, though now hath Helen, whom the gods abhor, reft thee of thine own, yea, and robbed thee of thy life and caused thy house to perish root and branch.
Cho. Woe! thrice woe! my heart is touched, and thou the cause, my mighty prince in days now passed!
Hec. About thy body now I swathe this Phrygian robe of honour, which should have clad thee on thy marriage-day, wedded to the noblest of Asia's daughters. Thou too, dear shield of Hector, victorious parent of countless triumphs past, accept thy crown, for though thou share the dead child's tomb, death cannot touch thee; for thou dost merit honours far beyond those arms[1] that the crafty knave Odysseus won.
Cho. Alas! ah me! thee, O child, shall earth take to her breast, a cause for bitter weeping. Mourn, thou mother!
Hec. Ah me!
Cho. Wail for the dead.
Hec. Woe is me!
Cho. Alas! for thy unending sorrow!
Hec. Thy wounds in part will I bind up with bandages, a wretched leech in name alone, without reality; but for the rest, thy sire must look to that amongst the dead.
- ↑ i.e. the arms of Achilles, which were set up as a prize, and won by Odysseus from Aias.
