Nor going forth? Shall any smart for this
Save thee?—for thou wast warder of the host.
They are gone, unsmitten!—gone, with many a scoff
At Phrygian cowardice and me, your chief! 815
Now know this well—by father Zeus 'tis sworn—
Surely the scourge, or doom of headsman's axe
Awaits thee for this work: else reckon thou
Hector a thing of nought, a craven wretch.
Chorus.
(Ant. to Str. 454—466).
Woe for me! terrible evil, ah terrible, lighted on me[1] 820
When with my tidings I came, O thou warder of Troy, unto thee,—
Tidings of beacon-fires lit through the Argive array by the sea.
Yet have I suffered the night not to drop from her slumberous wing
Sleep on mine eyelids—I swear it by holiest Simoïs' spring!
Let not thine anger against me be hot, who am guiltless, O King!
Then, if hereafter, as time runneth on, or in word or in deed 830
Ever thou find me transgressing, O then to the grave do thou speed
Me,—yea, alive to go down to the pit; nor for mercy I plead.
