Named the most mighty in the days past over,—
She whom he loved, whose hands draw onward these
Like to a chariot's trace-led steeds,—the father
Stricken in years of Herakles!—woe's me!
Fountains of tears within mine old eyes gather;
How should I stay them, such a sight who see? 450
Enter Megara, Amphitryon, and children.
Megara.
Who is the priest, the butcher, of the ill-starred?
Or who the murderer of my wretched life?
Ready the victims are to lead to death.
O sons, a shameful chariot-team death-driven
Together, old men, mothers, babes, are we. 450
O hapless doom of me and these my sons
Whom for the last time now mine eyes behold!
I bare you, nursed you—all to be for foes
A scoff, a glee, a thing to be destroyed.
Woe and alas!
Ah for my shattered dreams, my broken hopes, 450
Hopes that I once built on your father's words!
Argos to thee[1] thy dead sire would allot:
Thou in Eurystheus' palace wast to dwell
In fair and rich Pelasgia's sceptred sway.
That beast's fell o'er thine head he wont to throw, 450
The lion's skin wherein himself went clad.
Thou[2] shouldst be king of chariot-loving Thebes,
