The King of Argos
O stranger maids, I may not trust this word,
That ye have share in this our Argive race.
No likeness of our country do ye bear,
But semblance as of Libyan womankind.
Even such a stock by Nilus' banks might grow;
Yea, and the Cyprian stamp, in female forms,
Shows, to the life, what males impressed the same.
And, furthermore, of roving Indian maids
Whose camping-grounds by Aethiopia lie,
And camels burdened even as mules, and bearing
Riders, as horses bear, mine ears have heard;
And tales of flesh-devouring mateless maids
Called Amazons: to these, if bows ye bare,
I most had deemed you like. Speak further yet,
That of your Argive birth the truth I learn.
Chorus
Here in this Argive land—so runs the tale—
Io was priestess once of Hera's fane.
The King of Argos
Yea, truth it is, and far this word prevails:
Is't said that Zeus with mortal mingled love?
Chorus
Ay, and that Hera that embrace surmised.
The King of Argos
How issued then this strife of those on high?
Chorus
By Hera's will, a heifer she became.
