heavy; for just when I ought to have lain softly in a mother's arms, tasting somewhat of the joys of life, was I deprived of a fond mother's fostering care. Nor less is she a prey to sorrow that bare me, seeing she hath suffered the self-same pang in losing all the joy a son might bring. Now will I take and bear this ark unto the god as an offering, that herein I may discover naught that I would rather not. For if haply my mother proves to be some slave-girl, 'twere worse to find her out than let her rest in silence. O! Phœbus, to thy temple do I dedicate this ark. Yet why? this is to war against the god's intention, who saved these tokens of my mother for my sake. I must undo the lid and bear the worst. For that which fate ordains, I may ne'er o'erstep. O! hallowed wreaths and fastenings, that have kept so safe these relics dear to me; why, ah! why were ye hidden from me? Behold the covering of this rounded ark! No signs of age are here, owing to some miracle;[1] decay hath not touched these chaplets; and yet 'tis long enough since these were stored away.
Cre. Ha! what unlooked-for sight is here?
Ion. Peace, woman! now,[2] as erst, thou art my enemy.
Cre. Silence is not for me. Bid me not be still; for lo! I see the ark wherein I did expose thee, my child, in days gone by, whilst[3] yet a tender babe [in the cavern of Cecrops, 'neath the rocky roof of Macræ]. So now will I leave this altar, though death await me.
Ion. Seize her; she is mad, springing thus from the shelter of the carved altar. Bind her arms.
Cre. Kill! spare not! for I to thee will cleave, and to this ark, and all that is within it.
