ANT.  I see indeed, but not distinctly; but somehow I see the resemblance of his form, and his shape shadowed out.  Would that with my feet I could perform the journey of the winged cloud through the air to my brother, then would I fling my arms round his dearest neck, after so long a time a wretched exile.  How splendid is he, O old man, in his golden armor, glittering like the morning rays of the sun.

TUT.  He will come to this house confiding in the truce, so as to fill thee with joy.

ANT.  But who, O aged man, is this, who guides his milk-white steeds seated in his chariot?

TUT.  The prophet Amphiaraus this, O my mistress, and with him the victims, the libations of the earth delighting in blood.

AST. O thou daughter of the brightly girded sun, thou moon, golden-circled light, applying what quiet and temperate blows to his steeds does he direct his chariot!  But where is he who utters such dreadful insults against this city, Capaneus?

TUT.  He is scanning the approach to the towers, measuring the walls both from their foundation to the top.

ANT.  O vengeance, and ye loud-roaring thunders of Jove, and thou blasting fire of the lightning, do thou quell this more-than-mortal arrogance.  This is he who will with his spear give to Mycenae, and to the streams of Lernaean Triaena,[13] and to the Amymonian[14] waters of Neptune, the Theban women, having invested them with slavery.  Sever, O awful Goddess, never, O daughter of Jove, with golden clusters of ringlets, Diana, may I endure servitude.

TUT.  My child, enter the palace, and at home remain in thy virgin chambers, since thou hast arrived at the indulgement of thy desire, as to what you were anxious to behold.  For, since confusion has entered the city, a crowd of women is advancing to the royal palace.  The race of women is prone to complaint, and if they find but small occasion for words, they add more, and it is a sort of pleasure to women, to speak nothing well-advised one of another.[15]

CHORUS.

I have come, having left the Tyrian wave, the first-fruits of Loxias, from the sea-washed Phoenicia, a slave for the shrine of Apollo, that I might dwell under the snowy brows of Parnassus, having sped my way over the Ionian flood by the oar, the west wind with its blasts riding over the barren plains of waters[16] which flow round Sicily, the sweetest murmur in the heavens.  Chosen out from my city the fairest present to Apollo, I came to the land of the Cadmeans, the illustrious descendants of Agenor, sent hither to these kindred towers of Laius.  And I am made the slave of Apollo in like manner with the golden-framed images.  Moreover the water of Castalia awaits me, to lave the virgin pride of my tresses, in the ministry of Apollo.  O blazing rock, the flame of fire that seems[17] double above the Dionysian heights of Bacchus, and thou vine, who distillest the daily nectar, producing the fruitful cluster from