Ion. Is not this monstrous? here am I laid claim to on a specious pretext.[1]
Cre. Nay, nay, but as a friend art thou by friends now found.
Ion. I a friend of thine! and wouldst thou, then, have slain me privily?
Cre. Thou art my child, if that is what a parent holds most dear.
Ion. An end to thy web of falsehood! Right well will I convict thee.
Cre. My child, that is my aim; God grant I reach it!
Ion. Is this ark empty, or hath it aught within?
Cre. Thy raiment wherein I exposed thee long ago.
Ion. Wilt put a name thereto before thou see it?
Cre. Unless I describe it, I offer to die.
Ion. Say on; there is something strange in this thy confidence.
Cre. Behold the robe my childish fingers wove.
Ion. Describe it; maidens weave many a pattern.
Cre. 'Tis not perfect, but a first lesson, as it were, in weaving.
Ion. Describe its form; thou shalt not catch me thus.
Cre. A Gorgon figures in the centre of the warp.
Ion. Great Zeus! what fate is this that dogs my steps?
Cre. 'Tis fringed with snakes like an ægis.
Ion. Lo! 'tis the very robe; how true we find the voice of God![2]
Cre. Ah! woven work that erst my virgin shuttle wrought.
Ion. Is there aught beside, or stays thy lucky guessing here?
