thirst? 
  This thing moves more than all things, even thy son,
  That thou cleave to him; and he shall honour thee,
  Thy womb that bare him and the breasts he knew,
  Reverencing most for thy sake all his gods.

  Althaea.

  But these the gods too gave me, and these my son,
  Not reverencing his gods nor mine own heart
  Nor the old sweet years nor all venerable things,
  But cruel, and in his ravin like a beast,
  Hath taken away to slay them:  yea, and she,
  She the strange woman, she the flower, the sword,
  Red from spilt blood, a mortal flower to men,
  Adorable, detestable—­even she
  Saw with strange eyes and with strange lips rejoiced,
  Seeing these mine own slain of mine own, and me
  Made miserable above all miseries made,
  A grief among all women in the world,
  A name to be washed out with all men’s tears.

  Chorus.

  Strengthen thy spirit; is this not also a god,
  Chance, and the wheel of all necessities? 
  Hard things have fallen upon us from harsh gods,
  Whom lest worse hap rebuke we not for these.

  Althaea.

  My spirit is strong against itself, and I
  For these things’ sake cry out on mine own soul
  That it endures outrage, and dolorous days,
  And life, and this inexpiable impotence. 
  Weak am I, weak and shameful; my breath drawn
  Shames me, and monstrous things and violent gods. 
  What shall atone? what heal me? what bring back
  Strength to the foot, light to the face? what herb
  Assuage me? what restore me? what release? 
  What strange thing eaten or drunken, O great gods. 
  Make me as you or as the beasts that feed,
  Slay and divide and cherish their own hearts? 
  For these ye show us; and we less than these
  Have not wherewith to live as all these things
  Which all their lives fare after their own kind
  As who doth well rejoicing; but we ill,
  Weeping or laughing, we whom eyesight fails,
  Knowledge and light efface and perfect heart,
  And hands we lack, and wit; and all our days
  Sin, and have hunger, and die infatuated. 
  For madness have ye given us and not health,
  And sins whereof we know not; and for these
  Death, and sudden destruction unaware. 
  What shall we say now? what thing comes of us?

  Chorus.

  Alas, for all this all men undergo.

  Althaea.

  Wherefore I will not that these twain, O gods,
  Die as a dog dies, eaten of creeping things,
  Abominable, a loathing; but though dead
  Shall they have honour and such funereal flame
  As strews men’s ashes in their enemies’ face
  And blinds their eyes who hate them:  lest men say,
  ’Lo how they lie, and living had great kin,
  And none of these hath pity of them, and none
  Regards them lying, and none is wrung at heart,