ADMETUS. 
I called not thee to burial of my dead,
Nor count thy presence here a welcome thing. 
My wife shall wear no robe that thou canst bring,
Nor needs thy help in aught.  There was a day
We craved thy love, when I was on my way
Deathward—­thy love, which bade thee stand aside
And watch, grey-bearded, while a young man died! 
And now wilt mourn for her?  Thy fatherhood! 
Thou wast no true begetter of my blood,
Nor she my mother who dares call me child. 
Oh, she was barren ever; she beguiled
Thy folly with some bastard of a thrall. 
Here is thy proof!  This hour hath shown me all
Thou art; and now I am no more thy son. 
  ’Fore God, among all cowards can scarce be one
Like thee.  So grey, so near the boundary
Of mortal life, thou wouldst not, durst not, die
To save thy son!  Thou hast suffered her to do
Thine office, her, no kin to me nor you,
Yet more than kin!  Henceforth she hath all the part
Of mother, yea, and father in my heart. 
  And what a glory had been thine that day,
Dying to save thy son—­when, either way,
Thy time must needs be brief.  Thy life has had
Abundance of the things that make men glad;
A crown that came to thee in youth; a son
To do thee worship and maintain thy throne—­
Not like a childless king, whose folk and lands
Lie helpless, to be torn by strangers’ hands. 
  Wilt say I failed in duty to thine age;
For that thou hast let me die?  Not so; most sage,
Most pious I was, to mother and to thee;
And thus ye have paid me!  Well, I counsel ye. 
Lose no more time.  Get quick another son
To foster thy last years, to lay thee on
Thy bier, when dead, and wrap thee in thy pall.
I will not bury thee.  I am, for all
The care thou hast shown me, dead.  If I have found
Another, true to save me at the bound
Of life and death, that other’s child am I,
That other’s fostering friend, until I die. 
  How falsely do these old men pray for death,
Cursing their weight of years, their weary breath! 
When Death comes close, there is not one that dares
To die; age is forgot and all its cares.

LEADER. 
Oh, peace!  Enough of sorrow in our path
Is strewn.  Thou son, stir not thy father’s wrath.

PHERES. 
My son, whom seekest thou ... some Lydian thrall,
Or Phrygian, bought with cash?... to affright withal
By cursing?  I am a Thessalian, free,
My father a born chief of Thessaly;
And thou most insolent.  Yet think not so
To fling thy loud lewd words at me and go. 
  I got thee to succeed me in my hall,
I have fed thee, clad thee.  But I have no call
To die for thee.  Not in our family,
Not in all Greece, doth law bid fathers die
To save their sons.  Thy road of life is thine
None other’s, to rejoice at or repine. 
All that was owed to thee by us is paid. 
My throne is thine.  My broad lands shall be made