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THE SUPPLIANT MAIDENS.
Of loathly wedlock, would on Argos' shore
Set forth a race of kindred lineage?
The King of Argos.
But say, what cravest thou, with olive-shoots
New-plucked, white-filleted, upon our shrines?
Chorus.
Ne'er to be slaves unto Ægyptus' race.
The King of Argos.
Doth your own hate, or doth the law forbid?
Chorus.
Not as our lords, but as unloved, we chide them.
The King of Argos.
'Tis from such wedlock that advancement comes.
Chorus.
How easy is it, from the weak to turn!
The King of Argos.
Say then, what Heaven commands me toward you.
Chorus.
Deny us, though Ægyptus' race demand.
The King of Argos.
A heavy task thou namest, a rash war.
