And bid to such a banquet Thebes and me!
Woe for our sorrows!—first for thine, then mine!
How hath the God, King Bromius, ruined us!—
Just stroke—yet ruthless—is he not our kin? 1250
Agave.
How sour of mood is greybeard eld in men,
Flow sullen-eyed! Framed in his mother's mould
A mighty hunter may my son become,
When with the Theban youths he speedeth forth
Questing the quarry!—But he can do nought 1255
Save war with Gods! Father, our part it is
To warn him not to joy in baneful wisdom.
Where is he? Who will call him hitherward
To see me, and behold mine happiness?
Kadmus.
Alas! when ye are ware what ye have done, 1260
With sore grief shall ye grieve! If to life's end
Ye should abide on aye in this your state,
Ye should not, though unblest, seem all accurst.
Agave.
What is not well here?—what that calls for grief?
Kadmus.
First cast thou up thine eye to yonder heaven. 1265
Agave.
Lo, so I do. Why bid me look thereon?
Kadmus.
Seems it the same? Or hath it changed to thee?
