Chorus.
Strange votive tablets shall these statues deck.
The King of Argos.
Mysterious thy resolve—avow it clear.
Chorus.
Swiftly to hang me on these sculptured gods!
The King of Argos.
Thy word is as a lash to urge my heart.
Chorus.
Thou seest truth, for I have cleared thine eyes.
The King of Argos.
Yea, and woes manifold, invincible,
A crowd of ills, sweep on me torrent-like.
My bark goes forth upon a sea of troubles
Unfathomed, ill to traverse, harbourless.
For if my deed shall match not your demand,
Dire, beyond shot of speech, shall be the bane
Your death's pollution leaves unto this land.
Yet if against your kin, Ægyptus' race,
Before our gates I front the doom of war,
Will not the city's loss be sore? Shall men
For women's sake incarnadine the ground?
But yet the wrath of Zeus, the suppliants' lord,
I needs must fear: most awful unto man
The terror of his anger. Thou, old man,
