Chorus.
Short is my word and clear. Of Argive race
We come, from her the ox-horned maiden who
Erst bare the sacred child. My word shall give
Whate'er can stablish this my soothfast tale.
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;
And like to you the moulds, the handicraft
Of men, made like unto a woman's shape
In Cyprus born. Of roving Indian maids
Whose camping-grounds by Æthiopia 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?
