Philoctetes article paper

A monologue from the play by Sophocles

NOTICE: This monologue is published from Video clips. Sophocles. London: J. M. Drop Sons, 1906.

PHILOCTETES: U what a work and sport of Gods am I!

Of whose unwell plight zero whisper ever before came

To my own house, or any seacoast of Portugal

But they whom thrust me personally out unrighteously

Laugh and keep silence, when my sickness ever

Develops on me personally and boosts more and more.

U boy! Um son, phoning Achilles maest?

I was the man who, may be, thou hast observed

Was master of the forearms of Heracles

The kid of S? as, Philoctetes! whom

The Captains twain and the Cephallenite king

Ensemble out as a result shamefullydesertedsick

Of a consuming woundpierced through and through

By destroying vipers venomous fangs

And in this plight, youngster, they exposed me right here

Left me, and went! once from the Chrysean coast

Installed in hither with their navy blue, straight

Quickly as they observed me sleeping on the beach front

Tired with long tossing, in a sheltered give

They chuckled, they gone, they made me! casting me personally

A few suggest rags, a beggars garniture

And some poor pittance, too, of nutrition

Such as, My spouse and i pray, become theirs! To then, my own son

What kinds of waking, think you, from that sleep

Acquired I after they were gone! How do I weep

How performed I wail, for my personal calamities!

Seeing the boats which I was leader of

All eliminated away, with out man in the place

Whom should be sufficient me, or perhaps should ease and comfort me

In the disease that I laboured, yea

Though I searched for everywhere, nothing I found

Remaining to me, conserve my suffering, and, my own son

Of the no shortage indeed! Hour after hour

Passed simply by me, and i also must requirements make change alone

Beneath this scanty shelter. Intended for my foodstuff

This palpitate sought out what supplied my own need

Striking the doves on wing, then to the tag

Of the shot bolt I had developed to spider, with pain

Pulling a injured foot. If perhaps upon this kind of

I wanted to get everything to drink

Or, as in winter when the hoar frost lay down

To break some sticks to burn, this kind of, creeping on

I had to control, in my agony.

Ther there is no open fire, but impressive hard

With flint in flint I struck away painfully

A great obscure ignite, which keeps myself still surviving.

Thus protection overhead, certainly not without fireplace

Furnishes almost all, save curing of my personal sore.

Come now and hear about the isle, my son

Zero sailor voluntarily approaches this

For anchorage there is not, or possibly a port

Whither a man may well sail, and make his mart

By simply traffic, or perhaps find pleasant, prudent males

Do not make journey here. Someone, perhaps

May well land against his is going to, for these items oft

Will happen in the long-drawn life of men

Although such, my own son, if they do come, in words

Shame me, in addition to compassion give me, say

A few morsel of food, or perhaps matter of clothes

But that thing not any man, while i hint that, will do

Consider me safe home, although this 10th year already

In hunger and stress I pinus radiata and expire

Feeding the gnawing dental of my personal disease.

The Atrid?, and Ulysses physical violence

Have done me all this wrong, the like of which

O youngster, may the Olympian Gods give them

1 day to suffer, in payback for me!