CHORUS
O mountainous, all-nourishing Mother Earth, Mother of Zeus, our lord, himself, you who range the golden Paktolos, Mother of pain and sorrow, I begged you, Blessed Mother, borne by bull-slaying lions, on that day when the arrogant Atreids insulted him, when they gave away his weapons to the son of Laertes. Hail, goddess, the highest object of our awe.
PHILOKTETES
You have sailed here, clearly, with a just cause of pain. Your share of grief almost matches mine. What you say harmonizes with what I know of them—- the evil doings of the Atreids and Odysseus. I know that Odysseus spins out lies with his evil tongue, which he uses to create all manner of injustice; he brings no good to pass, I know. Still, it amazes me to learn that Ajax, seeing these things, should permit them.
NEOPTOLEMOS
He is dead now, friend. If he lived, they would never have stolen the weapons from me.
PHILOKTETES
So Ajax, too, is dead.
NEOPTOLEMOS
Dead. Think of it.