Ph. No indeed,—no, I think I am better just now.—Ye gods!
Ne. Why groanest thou thus, and callest on the gods?
Ph. That they may come to us with power to save and soothe.—Ah me!—ah me!
Ne. What ails thee? Speak,—persist not in this740 silence:—'tis plain that something is amiss with thee.
Ph. I am lost, my son—I can never hide my trouble from you:—ah, it pierces me, it pierces! O misery,—O wretched that I am! I am undone, my son—it devours me.—Oh, for the gods' love, if thou hast a sword ready to thy hand, strike at my heel,—shear it off straightway—heed not my life!750 Quick, quick, my son!
Ne. And what new thing hath come on thee so suddenly, that thou bewailest thyself with such loud laments?
Ph. Thou knowest, my son. Ne. What is it? Ph. Thou knowest, boy. Ne. What is the matter with thee? I know not Ph. How canst thou help knowing? Oh, oh!
Ne. Dread, indeed, is the burden of the malady.
Ph. Aye, dread beyond telling. Oh, pity me!
Ne. What shall I do? Ph. Forsake me not in fear. This visitant comes but now and then,—when she hath been sated, haply, with her roamings.
Ne. Ah, hapless one! Hapless, indeed,760 art thou found in all manner of woe! Shall I take hold of thee, or lend thee a helping hand?
Ph. No, no:—but take this bow of mine, I pray
