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TEC.
‘Tis changed, his rage, like sudden blast,
Without the lightning gleam is past
And now that Reason’s light returns,
New sorrow in his spirit burns.
For when we look on self made woe,
In which no hand but ours had part,
Thought of such griefs and whence they flow
Brings aching misery to the heart.

CH.
If he hath ceased to rave, he should do well
The account of evil lessens when ’tis past.

TEC.
If choice were given you, would you rather choose
Hurting your friends, yourself to feel delight,
Or share with them in one commingled pain?

CH.
The two fold trouble is more terrible.

TEC.
Then comes our torment now the fit is o’er.

CH.
How mean’st thou by that word? I fail to see.

TEC.
He in his rage had rapture of delight
And knew not how he grieved us who stood near
And saw the madding tempest ruining him.
But now ’tis over and he breathes anew,
The counterblast of sorrow shakes his soul,
Whilst our affliction vexeth as before,
Have we not double for our single woe?

CH.
I feel thy reasoning move me, and I fear
Some heavenly stroke hath fallen. How else, when the end
Of stormy sickness brings no cheering ray?

TEC.
Our state is certain. Dream not but ’tis so.

CH.
How first began the assault of misery?
Tell us the trouble, for we share the pain.

TEC.
It toucheth you indeed, and ye shall hear
All from the first. ‘Twas midnight, and the lamp
Of eve had died, when, seizing his sharp blade,
He sought on some vain errand to creep forth.
I broke in with my word: ‘Aias, what now?
Why thus uncalled for salliest thou? No voice
Of herald summoned thee. No trumpet blew.
What wouldst thou when the camp is hushed in sleep?’
He with few words well known to women’s ears
Checked me: ‘The silent partner is the best.’
I saw how ’twas and ceased. Forth then he fared
Alone–What horror passed upon the plain
This night, I know not. But he drags within,
Tied in a throng, bulls, shepherd dogs, and spoil
Of cattle and sheep. Anon he butchers them,
Felling or piercing, hacking or tearing wide,
Ribs from breast, limb from limb. Others in rage
He seized and bound and tortured, brutes for men.
Last, out he rushed before the doors, and there
Whirled forth wild language to some shadowy form,
Flouting the generals and Laertes’ son
With torrent laughter and loud triumphing
What in his raid he had wreaked to their despite.
Then diving back within–the fitful storm
Slowly assuaging left his spirit clear.
And when his eye had lightened through the room
Cumbered with ruin, smiting on his brow
He roared; and, tumbling down amid the wreck
Of woolly carnage he himself had made,
Sate with clenched hand tight twisted in his hair.
Long stayed he so in silence. Then flashed forth
Those frightful words of threatening vehemence,
That bade me show him all the night’s mishap,
And whither he was fallen I, dear my friends,
Prevailed on through my fear, told all I knew.
And all at once he raised a bitter cry,
Which heretofore I ne’er had heard, for still
He made us think such doleful utterance
Betokened the dull craven spirit, and still
Dumb to shrill wailings, he would only moan
With half heard muttering, like an angry bull.
But now, by such dark fortune overpowered,
Foodless and dry, amid the quivering heap
His steel hath quelled, all quietly he broods;
And out of doubt his mind intends some harm:
Such words, such groans, burst from him. O my friends.–
Therefore I hastened,–enter and give aid
If aught ye can! Men thus forgone will oft
Grow milder through the counsel of a friend.