But mute thou sat'st, and each Messenian heart
In thy despondency desponded too.
Enough of this!—Though not a finger stir
To succor me in my extremest need;
Though all free spirits in this land were dead,
And only slaves and tyrants left alive;
Yet for me, mother, I had liefer die
On native ground, than drag the tedious hours
Of a protected exile any more.
Hate, duty, interest, passion call one way;
Here stand I now, and the attempt shall be.
THE CHORUS.
Prudence is on the other side; but deeds
Condemn'd by prudence have sometimes gone well.
MEROPE.
Not till the ways of prudence all are tried,
And tried in vain, the turn of rashness comes.
Thou leapest to thy deed, and hast not ask'd
Thy kinsfolk and thy father's friends for aid.
ÆPYTUS.
And to what friends should I for aid apply?
MEROPE.
The royal race of Temenus, in Argos ——
ÆPYTUS.
That house, like ours, intestine murder maims.
MEROPE.
Thy Spartan cousins, Procles and his brother ——
