ADMETUS (erect and facing them). 
Behold, I count my wife’s fate happier,
Though all gainsay me, than mine own.  To her
Comes no more pain for ever; she hath rest
And peace from all toil, and her name is blest. 
But I am one who hath no right to stay
Alive on earth; one that hath lost his way
In fate, and strays in dreams of life long past.... 
Friends, I have learned my lesson at the last. 
  I have my life.  Here stands my house.  But now
How dare I enter in?  Or, entered, how
Go forth again?  Go forth, when none is there
To give me a parting word, and I to her?... 
  Where shall I turn for refuge?  There within,
The desert that remains where she hath been
Will drive me forth, the bed, the empty seat
She sat in; nay, the floor beneath my feet
Unswept, the children crying at my knee
For mother; and the very thralls will be
In sobs for the dear mistress that is lost. 
  That is my home!  If I go forth, a host
Of feasts and bridal dances, gatherings gay
Of women, will be there to fright me away
To loneliness.  Mine eyes will never bear
The sight.  They were her friends; they played with her. 
  And always, always, men who hate my name
Will murmur:  “This is he who lives in shame
Because he dared not die!  He gave instead
The woman whom he loved, and so is fled
From death.  He counts himself a man withal! 
And seeing his parents died not at his call
He hates them, when himself he dared not die!”
  Such mocking beside all my pain shall I
Endure....  What profit was it to live on,
Friend, with my grief kept and mine honour gone?

CHORUS. 
I have sojourned in the Muse’s land,
  Have wandered with the wandering star,
Seeking for strength, and in my hand
  Held all philosophies that are;
Yet nothing could I hear nor see
Stronger than That Which Needs Must Be. 
No Orphic rune, no Thracian scroll,
  Hath magic to avert the morrow;
No healing all those medicines brave
Apollo to the Asclepiad gave;
Pale herbs of comfort in the bowl
    Of man’s wide sorrow. 
She hath no temple, she alone,
  Nor image where a man may kneel;
No blood upon her altar-stone
  Crying shall make her hear nor feel. 
I know thy greatness; come not great
Beyond my dreams, O Power of Fate! 
Aye, Zeus himself shall not unclose
  His purpose save by thy decerning. 
The chain of iron, the Scythian sword,
It yields and shivers at thy word;
Thy heart is as the rock, and knows
  No ruth, nor turning.

[They turn to ADMETUS.]

Her hand hath caught thee; yea, the keeping
  Of iron fingers grips thee round. 
Be still.  Be still.  Thy noise of weeping
  Shall raise no lost one from the ground. 
Nay, even the Sons of God are parted
At last from joy, and pine in death.... 
Oh, dear on earth when all did love her,
Oh, dearer lost beyond recover: 
Of women all the bravest-hearted
  Hath pressed thy lips and breathed thy breath.