O that this lock might with articulate voice
Pronounce a herald’s tale, and I no more
This way and that with dubious thought be swayed!
That I might know if from a hostile head
’Twas shorn, and hate it as it hate deserves,
Or, if from friends, my sorrows’ fellow make it,
The dearest grace of my dear father’s tomb!
But the gods know our woes; them we invoke,
Whirled to and fro in eddies of dark doubt,
Like vessels tempest-tossed. If they will save us,