Ion. Why dost thou mention Phœbus?
Cre. Forced on me his secret love.
Ion. Say on; for thy story will crown me with fame and fortune.
Cre. And as the tenth month came round I bore a child to Phœbus in secret.
Ion. Oh! thy happy tidings, if thy story is true.
Cre. And about thee as swaddling-clothes I fastened this my maiden work, the faulty efforts of my loom. But to my breast I never held thy lips, or suckled or washed thee with a mother's care; but in a desert cave wert thou cast out to die, for taloned kites to rend and feast upon.
Ion. An awful deed! O mother!
Cre. Fear held me captive, and I cast thy life away, my child; I would, though loth, have slain thee too.
Ion. Thou too wert all but slain by me most impiously.
Cre. O the horror of all I suffered then! O the horror of what is to follow now! To and fro from bad to good we toss, though now the gale is shifting round. May it remain steady! the past brought sorrows enough; but now hath a fair breeze sprung up, my son, to waft us out of woe.
Cho. Let no man ever deem a thing past hoping for, when he turns an eye towards what is happening now.
Ion. O Fortune! who ere now hast changed the lot of countless mortals first to grief, and then to joy again, to what a goal my life had come, even to staining my hands with a mother's blood and enduring sufferings ill-deserved! Ah well! may we not learn these truths daily in all that the bright sun embraces? O mother, in thee have I made a happy discovery, and from my point of view there is no fault to find with my birth; but what remains I fain would speak to thee apart. Come hither, for I would say a word in thine ear, and o'er these matters cast the veil of silence. Bethink thee, mother, carefully; didst thou make the fatal slip, that maidens will, as touching secret amours,
