Philoctetes (135-220)

Long have I been careful of this care, my prince: that my eyes should be watchful for your good above all else. And now tell me, in what manner of shelter does he keep his dwelling? In what region is he now? It is not inopportune for

me to learn so that he may not come upon me unawares from somewhere. In what place does he wander, or rest? Does he plant his steps within his shelter, or abroad?

That man—inferior in no way, probably, to any man belonging to the oldest families—lies alone without companions and stripped of all life’s gifts

among the dappled or shaggy beasts. He is a man to be pitied for his torments and his hunger alike, enduring anguish that has no cure. But to his bitter cries the mountain nymph, babbling Echo, coming from afar,

gives answer.

But listen, son—

To what? Tell me.

To my latest thoughts. For he is not far from his home, but nearby. And not with music of the flute, like a shepherd pasturing his flocks, does he come,—

no—but crying out a far-sounding howl as he stumbles, perhaps, from tortuous pain, or as he scans the haven unvisited by any ship. His cries are loud, and terrible.