Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1896) v2.djvu/182

Woe! On what spot of earth shall I, eld-stricken, 190
Be thrall, a drone within the hive.
Weak as the corpse that breath no more shall quicken,
Ghost of the once-alive,

To keep with palsied hand a master's portal,
To nurse the babes of some proud foe?—
I, who was crowned with honours half-immortal
In Troy—ah, long ago!

(Str. 4)
Woe is thee!—with what wailings wilt thou lament thy doom
Of outrage-shame?
As I pace to and fro shall my shuttle thread no loom
In Troy again! 200

On the corpses of sons must I look my last—my last,
Whom worse ills wait,
To be thrall to the couch of a Greek—ah, ruin blast
That night—that fate!—

Or the water to draw from Peirênê's hallowed spring
With bondmaid's hand:—
Yet oh might I come unto where was Theseus king.
That heaven-blest land!—

But not to the swirls of Eurotas, not the bower 210
Of my worst foe,
Even Helen—oh not into Menelaus' power
Who brought Troy low!