PHILOKTETES
He sits laughing on the shores of the wine-dark sea. He holds in his hands the bow that sustained me, which no mortal but I had ever touched. Beloved bow, made by caring hands, the prize of Herakles, who'll never use you again, if you could see, you would pity me. You have a new master, a guileful man. He will bend you now. You will know treachery, know my hated enemy, and know countless evils rising from his deceit.