I beseech you by Zeus the god of suppliants, the sternest foe to sinful men, and for the sake of Phoebus and Hera herself, under whose especial care ye have come hither, help me, save an ill-fated man from misery, and depart not uncaring and leaving me thus as ye see.

For not only has the Fury set her foot on my eyes and I drag on to the end a weary old age; but besides my other woes a woe hangs over me--the bitterest of all.

The Harpies, swooping down from some unseen den of destruction ever snatch the food from my mouth.
And I have no device to aid me.

But it were easier, when I long for a meal, to escape my own thoughts than them, so swiftly do they fly through the air.

But if haply they _do_ leave me a morsel of food it reeks of decay and the stench is unendurable, nor could any mortal bear to draw near even for a moment, no, not if his heart were wrought of adamant.