AIAS. Hail, offspring of the Highest! Pallas, hail!
Well hast thou stood by me. Triumphal gold
Shall crown thy temple for this lordly prey.
ATH. A fair intention! But resolve me this:
Hast dyed thy falchion deep in Argive blood?
AI. There is my boast; that charge I’ll ne’er deny.
ATH. Have Atreus’ sons felt thy victorious might?
AI. They have. No more they’ll make a scorn of me!
ATH. I take it, then, they are dead.
AI. Ay, now they are dead,
Let them arise and rob me of mine arms!
[page 46][101-133] ATH. Good. Next inform us of Laërtes’ son;
How stands his fortune? Hast thou let him go?
AI. The accursed fox! Dost thou inquire of him?
ATH. Ay, of Odysseus, thy late adversary.