Philoctetes quotes

How to possess us of those matchless arms— There is the puzzle; set thy wits to that. I know, my son, thy honest nature shrinks From glozing words and practice of deceit; But (for ’tis sweet to snatch a victory)

Be bold to-day and honest afterwards. For one brief hour of lying follow me; All time to come shall prove thy probity.

Son of Laertes, what upon my ear Grates in the telling, I should hate to do. Such is my nature; any taint of guile I loathe, and such, they tell me, was my sire.

Such is my nature; any taint of guile I loathe, and such, they tell me, was my sire. But I am ready, not by fraud, but force, To bring the man; for, crippled in one foot, Against our numbers he can prove no match.

Nathless, since I was sent to aid thee, prince, I fear to seem a laggard; yet prefer To fail with honour than succeed by fraud.

Son of a gallant sire, I too in youth Was slow of tongue and forward with my hand; But I have learnt by trial of mankind Mightier than deeds of puissance is the tongue.

for, crippled in one foot, Against our numbers he can prove no match. Nathless, since I was sent to aid thee, prince, I fear to seem a laggard; yet prefer To fail with honour than succeed by fraud.

Son of a gallant sire, I too in youth Was slow of tongue and forward with my hand; But I have learnt by trial of mankind Mightier than deeds of puissance is the tongue.

It comes to this that thou would’st have me lie.

Why not persuade him rather than deceive?

Persuasion’s vain, and force of no avail.

What arms hath he of such miraculous might?

Thou deem’st it, then, no shame to tell a lie?

Not if success depends upon a lie.

With what face shall one dare to speak such words?

With what face shall one dare to speak such words?

If thou wouldst profit thou must have no qualms.

What gain to me, should he be brought to Troy?

Picture, my son, when I awoke and found All gone, what waking then was mine; what tears, What lamentations, when I saw the ships In which I sailed all vanished; not a soul To share my solitude or tend my wound.

All ways I gazed and nothing found but pain, Pain, and of pain, God wot, enow, my son.

So passed the crawling hours, day upon day, Year after year. I shifted for myself Beneath this homeless, solitary roof.

what tears, What lamentations, when I saw the ships In which I sailed all vanished; not a soul To share my solitude or tend my wound. All ways I gazed and nothing found but pain, Pain, and of pain, God wot, enow, my son.

So passed the crawling hours, day upon day, Year after year.

I shifted for myself Beneath this homeless, solitary roof. To sate my hunger with this bow I shot The wingèd doves and ever when my bolt Sped from the taut string to the mark, I crawled Thither my lamed foot trailing painfully.

And if of water I had need, or when In winter time the ground was hoar with frost, And firewood must be fetched, forth would I creep Somewise to compass this.

I had no fire, But from the hard rock striking flint on flint Brought forth the hidden spark that keeps me alive.

For, look ye, a bare roof and fire withal Serve all my needs, save healing of my sore. Now let me tell thee of this isle, my son.

From such, my son, when they do come, I get Kind words of pity and perchance an alms Of food or raiment, but at the first hint Of passage home, they one and all refuse.

So here for ten long years I linger on, Consumed with hunger, dying inch by inch; Only the worm that gnaws me dieth not.

To the Atridae and Odysseus, boy, I owe this misery. God in heaven requite In kind the wrongs that they have done to me!

Alas! thou tell’st me of a double loss, The two men whom of all I least could spare. Ah me! What hope is there when two such men Are taken and Odysseus lives, whose death Instead of theirs thou hadst by rights announced?

A cunning gamester, but the cunningest, O Philoctetes, are full often thrown.

But tell me, prithee, where was he the while, Patroclus, once thy father’s bosom friend?

Dead like the rest, for this in sooth is true:

War never slays an evil man by choice, But still the good.

In that I’ll bear thee out. By the same token, I would ask of one, A worthless wight, but shrewd and glib of tongue.

I thought as much; for evil never dies, Fostered too well by gods who take delight, Methinks, to turn back from the gates of hell All irredeemable rascality, But speed the righteous on their downward way.

What should I deem of this, how justify The ways of Heaven, finding Heaven unjust?

For my part, son of an Oetean sire, I shall take heed henceforward to behold Troy and the two Atridae from afar. Where villainy to goodness is preferred, And virtue withers, and the base hold sway, Such company I never will frequent.

For my part, son of an Oetean sire, I shall take heed henceforward to behold Troy and the two Atridae from afar.

Where villainy to goodness is preferred, And virtue withers, and the base hold sway, Such company I never will frequent.

Enough for me henceforth my native rocks, My island home in Scyros; there I’ll bide. Now to the ships. Farewell, a fond farewell, O son of Poeas; may the gods fulfil Thy heart’s desire and heal thee of thy wound!

But now to thee, my messenger at once And saviour, I appeal; save, pity me, Seeing upon how slippery a place Fortune for mortals and misfortune stand.

Therefore the man that lives at ease should look For rocks ahead, and when he prospers most Watch lest he suffer shipwreck unawares.

Antistrophe Pity, my chief! Pity a tale of agonizing grief! Pray God no friend Of mine may ever come to such an end! O pity him! I know thou hatest, prince, the Atridae grim; Turn to his gain The villainy they plotted for his bane.

Think of me as a stowaway! well I know The irksomeness of such a passenger.

Bear it! to true nobility of soul All shame is shameful, honour honourable.

And it would smirch thine honour to decline This task, my son; to do it, bring thee fame And glory, if ye carry me alive To Oeta. Come, ’tis but a day’s annoy. Take heart of courage;

But he—no word, no practice is too vile For him to stick at. He will come for sure. Haste thee, my son, and put a many leagues Of ocean ’twixt Odysseus and our ship.

Bestir ye! Who in season labours best, His labours ended, has the sweetest rest.

All in good time; soon as the headwind drops We will weigh anchor; now ’tis in our teeth.

All in good time; soon as the headwind drops We will weigh anchor; now ’tis in our teeth.

To those who fly from ill all winds are fair.

But this wind’s contrary for them no less.

Fear not, and thou shalt boast that thou alone Of mortals, for thy worth, hast handled it. ’Twas for a service done it came to me.

’Tis pleasant to have found and proved a friend; For him who good for good returns I hold A friend more precious than unnumbered gold.

Now go within.

What! the offensiveness of my complaint Will stay thee now from taking me aboard?

All is offensive when a man is false To his true self and, knowing right, does wrong.

But thou dost naught in word or deed to shame Thy birth in succouring a worthy man.

For in my strength he had not ta’en me, no, Nor as I am, disabled, save by guile. But now, entrapped, ah whither shall I turn? Have pity, give me, give me back my bow!

Be once again thy true self, even now.

What answer? None. O woe is me, I am lost! O cave with double mouth, to thee I turn; Stripped of my arms and lacking means of life, Here shall I wither in this lonely cell.

Much could I answer, did the time permit; One word must now suffice.

I am a man Who can adapt his humour to the hour.

When justice and plain-dealing are required, Ye will not find a man more scrupulous. My one concern is ever to prevail— Save in thy case; to thee right willingly I will give way. To Sailors. Unhand him, let him go! He may stay here.

What would’st thou? First thou bid’st us go, and then In the same breath thou biddest us remain.

O be not wrath if one distraught with pain Blurts out discordant words beside the mark.

Come then, unhappy man, with us embark.

Unwisdom marks thy words and actions both.

If just, ’tis better than unjust and wise.

Can it be justice to give back the prize Won by my policy?

I am afraid. ’Thou camest once before; I trusted thy fair words and ill I sped.

May not a man repent him?

Such thou wast, No less fair-spoken, when thou wert about To steal my bow, black treachery in thy heart.

’Tis not resentment for the past that stings, But a prevision of the ills to come;

For when a mind is warped it takes the ply, And evil-doers will be evil still.

Thee too, my son, I marvel much at thee; Never should’st thou have gone thyself to Troy, Nor sought to bring me thither. How could’st thou, When they had robbed thee of thy father’s meed And flouted thee?

Hast thou no fear of heaven, thus to speak?

Why should a man feel fear who helps his friends?

Help for the sons of Atreus, or for me?

Well, let me dree my weird; but thou, my son, Perform the promise made with clasp of hands, Take me straight home, and talk no more of Troy.

My cup of lamentations I have drained.

As thou wilt then; let us forward.