CHORUS
I pity him for all his woes, for his distress, for his loneliness, with no countryman at his side; he is accursed, always alone, brought down by bitter illness; he wanders, distraught, thrown off balance by simple needs. How can he withstand such ceaseless misfortune?
O, the violent snares laid out by the gods! O, the unhappy human race, living always on the edge, always in excess. He might have been a well-born man, second to none of the noble Greek houses. Now he has no part of the good life, and he lies alone, apart from others, among spotted deer and shaggy, wild goats. His mind is fixed on pain and hunger. He groans in anguish, and only a babbling echo answers, poured out from afar, in answer to his lamentations.
NEOPTOLEMOS
None of this amazes me. It is the work of divine Fate, if I understand rightly. Savage Chryse set these sufferings on him, the share of sufferings he must now endure. His torments are not random. The gods, surely, must heap them on him, so that he cannot bend the invincible bow until the right time comes, decreed by Zeus, and as it is promised, Troy is made to fall.