Ajax quotes

Yea, and to me sworn foeman, and is still.

What mockery sweeter than to mock at foes?

Enough for me that he abide within.

I will obscure his vision, howe’er clear.

Well, when a god works, all is possible.

Peace! stand thy ground and budge not from the spot.

I know none such, and though he be my foe, I still must pity him in his distress, Bound, hand and foot, to fatal destiny; And therein mind my case no less than his.

Alas! we living mortals, what are we But phantoms all or unsubstantial shades?

Warned by these sights, Odysseus, see that thou Utter no boastful word against the gods, Nor swell with pride if haply might of arm Exalt thee o’er thy fellows, or vast wealth. A day can prostrate and a day upraise All that is mortal;

Warned by these sights, Odysseus, see that thou Utter no boastful word against the gods, Nor swell with pride if haply might of arm Exalt thee o’er thy fellows, or vast wealth.

A day can prostrate and a day upraise All that is mortal

; but the gods approve Sobriety and frowardness abhor. Exeunt Athena and Odysseus. Enter Chorus.

Even more than he who tells, Every hearer takes delight In thy woes, for envious spite. So it falls; the noblest heart Is a target for each dart; Aimed at me such shafts would fail:

Envy doth the great assail.

Yet without the great the small Ill could guard the city wall; Leagued together small and great Best defend the common state. Fools this precept will not heed, And these men are fools indeed Who against thee rail;

No more; for like the southern blast When lightnings flash, his rage is past. But, now he is himself again, Reviving memory brings new pain.

What keener anguish than to know Thyself sole cause of self-wrought woe?

Nay, if he have surcease, good hope is mine All may be well, for men are less concerned With evil doing when the trouble’s past.

So I chid him, Saying, “What dost thou, Ajax, why go forth? No summons, messenger or trumpet blast, Hath called thee; nay, by now the whole host sleeps.” He answered lightly with an ancient saw, “

Woman, for women silence is a grace.

” Admonished thus I held my tongue; but he Sped forth alone. What happened afterwards I know not, but he came back with his spoil, Oxen and sheep-dogs with their fleecy charge.

And thus my foes exult in their escape, Albeit I willed it not, and mock at me. But if some god or goddess intervene,

Even a knave may worst the better man.

And now what’s left me? By the gods, ’tis clear, I am detested, hated by the host Of Greeks, abhorred by Troy and all the camp. Shall I sail homeward o’er the Aegean, leave The sons of Atreus to fight on alone, This roadstead undefended?

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow— What pleasure comes of that? ’Tis but a move Forward or backward and the end—is death! I would not count that mortal worth a doigt Who lives on, fed by visionary hopes.

Nobly to live⁠—that is the true knight’s choice, Or nobly end his life.

I have said my say.

What home is left me then, if thou art ta’en? What weal? my welfare is bound up in thee. Think of me also: gratitude is due From man for favours that a woman gives.

Kindness return of kindness e’er begets.

Who lets the memory of service pass Him will I ne’er with noble spirits rank.

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.

My boy, mayst thou prove happier than thy sire, But like him in all else, and thou wilt prove No weakling; nay, e’en now, in this at least I envy thee: of woes thou wottest naught,

For ignorance is life’s extremest bliss⁠— The years when joy and sorrow are both unknown.

But when thou reachest manhood, then’s the time To prove the inbred virtue of thy race, And show thy father’s foes whose son thou art. Meanwhile let light airs feed thee; cherish thou Thy tender years to glad thy mother’s heart.

O wretched father, what a curse ’tis thine Upon thy son to hear—curse that on none E’er fell of all the Aeacidae’s great line Save him alone.

Time in its slow, illimitable course Brings all to light and buries all again;

Strange things it brings to pass, the dreadest oath Is broken and the stubbornest will is bent.

and the wind’s fierce breath Can lay the storm and lull the moaning deep. E’en thus all-conquering sleep holds not for ever Whom he has bound, and must relax his grasp. And we, shall we not likewise learn to yield? I most of all; for

I have learnt, though late, This rule, to hate an enemy as one Who may become a friend, and serve a friend As knowing that his friendship may not last.

An unsafe anchorage to most men proves The bond of friendship. As for present needs All shall be well. Woman, go thou within And pray the gods that all my heart’s desires May find their consummation to the full.

For since the day I hanselled it, a gift From Hector, my arch-enemy, to this hour, No favour from Achaeans have I won. So true the word familiar in men’s mouths,

A foe’s gifts are no gifts and profit not.

Henceforward I shall know to yield to Heaven, And school myself the Atridae to respect. They are our rulers and obey we must; How otherwise? Dread potencies and powers Submit to law. Thus winter snow-bestrown Gives place to opulent summer.

What shall I do? What friend shall lift him up? Where, where is Teucer? Timely would he come, If come he might, to raise him and lay out His brother’s corse. Ah me!

How high thou stood’st, My Ajax, and how low thou liest here!

A sight to melt to tears e’en foemen’s eyes!

Well, let them laugh and mock at Ajax fall’n. It may be, though they missed him not in life, When comes the stress of war they’ll mourn him dead.

Men of mean judgment know not the good thing They have and hold till they have squandered it.

He by his death more sorrow gave to me Than joy to them; to himself ’twas pure content, For all he yearned to attain he won himself— Death that he chose. Then wherefore scoff at him? The gods were authors of his death, not they.

Then bring him quickly, Lest of our foemen one should snatch him up, As from a lioness forlorn her cub. Go quick, bestir thyself.

’Tis the world’s way To flout and triumph o’er the prostrate dead.

Exit Tecmessa.

How valorous with thy tongue!

He can be bold who hath his quarrel just.

Justice quotha, to exalt my murderer?

Never with tempers such as yours could law Be firmly based, if we are called to oust The rightful victors and promote the worse. This must be stopped.

’Tis not the brawny, big, Broad-shouldered men who prove the best at need; The wise and prudent everywhere prevail.

The broad-ribbed ox is guided on his path Down the straight furrow by a little goad. A like corrective is in store for thee, If thou acquire not some small sense full soon.

I would ye twain might learn sobriety; ’Tis the best counsel I can give you both.

Out on man’s gratitude! how soon it fades, Or proves a traitor when a friend is dead!

What memory, what tittle of regard Hath he for thee, my Ajax, thou who oft At peril of thy life didst toil for him? Lost labour, cast away and all forgot!

Yea, yet

I hated him so long as hate Was honourable.

Why not hate him still, And set thy heel on his dead body too?

Think to what kind of man thou showest grace.

My foe he was, but still a noble foe.

What wouldst thou? Honour a dead foeman’s corpse?

Such sudden change of mind we call caprice.

Common enough the change from friend to foe.

Dost thou commend such fickle friends as these?

These limbs are cold, yet still the warm Veins from the heart and wounded side Jet forth their dark ensanguined tide. Haste, each who claims the name of friend, Haste one and all the dead to tend With service due.

Since time began There lived on earth no nobler man.

Wisdom still by seeing grows, But no man the unseen knows. Shall he fare or ill or well Who of mortals can foretell?

Haste, each who claims the name of friend, Haste one and all the dead to tend With service due. Since time began There lived on earth no nobler man.

Wisdom still by seeing grows, But no man the unseen knows.

Shall he fare or ill or well Who of mortals can foretell?