PHILOKTETES
I beg you by your father, by your dear mother, by all you have ever loved at home: do not leave me here to live on in suffering, now that you have seen me, and heard what others have said about me. I am not important to you. Think of me anyway. I know that I will be a troublesome cargo for you, but accept that. To you and your noble kind, to be cruel is shameful; to be decent, honorable. If you leave me, it will make for an awful story. But if you take me, you'll have the best of men's praise, that is, if I live to see Oeta's fields. Come. Your trouble will last scarcely a day. You can manage that. Take me and stow me where you want, in the hold, on the prow, on the stern, anywhere that I will least offend you. Swear by Zeus, lord of suppliants, boy, that you will take me. I am trying to kneel before you, a cripple, lame. Do not leave me in this lonely place, where no one passes by. Take me to your home, or to the harbor of Euboean Chalkis. It is a short journey from there to Oeta, to the ridges of Trachis and smooth-flowing Spercheios. Show me there to my beloved father. I have long feared that he is dead, or else he would have come for me: I sent prayerful messages to him through travelers who happened along here, begging him to come himself and take me home. He is dead, then, or more likely the messengers held me in little regard, as messengers do, and hurried along to their homes. In you I have a guard and a herald. Save me. Have pity. Look how dangerously we mortals live, experiencing good, experiencing evil. If you are out of harm's way, expect horrible things, and when you live well, take extra care lest you be caught napping and be destroyed.