In dark recesses, where no heat of fire
Or warming ray might reach it, till with fresh
Anointing I addressed it to an end. 
So I had done.  And now this was to do,
Within my chamber covertly I spread
The ointment with piece of wool, a tuft
Pulled from a home-bred sheep; and, as ye saw,
I folded up my gift and packed it close
In hollow casket from the glaring sun. 
But, entering in, a fact encounters me
Past human wit to fathom with surmise. 
For, as it happened, I had tossed aside
The bit of wool I worked with, carelessly,
Into the open daylight, ’mid the blaze
Of Helios’ beam.  And, as it kindled warm,
It fell away to nothing, crumbled small,
Like dust in severing wood by sawyers strewn. 
So, on the point of vanishing, it lay. 
But, from the place where it had lain, brake forth
A frothy scum in clots of seething foam,
Like the rich draught in purple vintage poured
From Bacchus’ vine upon the thirsty ground. 
And I, unhappy, know not toward what thought
To turn me, but I see mine act is dire. 
For wherefore should the Centaur, for what end,
Show kindness to the cause for whom he died? 
That cannot be.  But seeking to destroy
His slayer, he cajoled me.  This I learn
Too late, by sad experience, for no good. 
And, if I err not now, my hapless fate
Is all alone to be his murderess. 
For, well I know, the shaft that made the wound
Gave pain to Cheiron, who was more than man;
And wheresoe’er it falls, it ravageth
All the wild creatures of the world.  And now
This gory venom blackly spreading bane
From Nessus’ angry wound, must it not cause
The death of Heracles?  I think it must. 
  Yet my resolve is firm, if aught harm him,
My death shall follow in the self-same hour. 
She cannot bear to live in evil fame,
Who cares to have a nature pure from ill.

CH.  Horrid mischance must needs occasion fear. 
But Hope is not condemned before the event.

DE.  In ill-advised proceeding not even Hope
Remains to minister a cheerful mind.

CH.  Yet to have erred unwittingly abates
The fire of wrath; and thou art in this case.

DE.  So speaks not he who hath a share of sin,
But who is clear of all offence at home.

CH.  ’Twere well to say no more, unless thou hast aught
To impart to thine own son:  for he is here,
Who went erewhile to find his father forth.

HYLLUS (re-entering). 
O mother, mother! 
I would to heaven one of three things were true: 
Either that thou wert dead, or, living, wert
No mother to me, or hadst gained a mind
Furnished with better thoughts than thou hast now!

DE.  My son! what canst thou so mislike in me?

HYL.  I tell thee thou this day hast been the death
Of him that was thy husband and my sire.

DE.  What word hath passed thy lips? my child, my child!