While yet he lived; but now I mourn his loss.
Messenger: One may not rightly mourn what he has willed.[1]
Theseus: This is indeed the crowning woe, I think,
When chance fulfils the prayers we should not make.
Messenger: If still you hate your son, why weep for him?
Theseus: Because I slew, not lost my son, I weep. 1120
Chorus: How on the wheel of circumstance
We mortals whirl! 'Gainst humble folk
Does fate more gently rage, and God
More lightly smites the lightly blest. 1125
A life in dim retirement spent
Insures a peaceful soul; and he
Who in a lowly cottage dwells
May live to tranquil age at last.
The mountain tops that pierce the skies,
Feel all the stormy winds that blow,
Fierce Eurus, Notus, and the threats
Of Boreas, and Corus too, 1130
Storm bringer.
The vale low lying seldom feels
The thunder's stroke; but Caucasus,
The huge, and the lofty Phrygian groves
Of mother Cybele have felt
The bolts of Jove the Thunderer. 1135
For Jupiter in jealousy
Attacks the heights too near his skies;
But never is the humble roof
Uptorn by jealous heaven's assaults.
Round mighty kings and homes of kings 1140
He thunders.
The passing hour on doubtful wings
Flits ever; nor may any claim
Swift Fortune's pledge. Behold our king,
Who sees at last the glowing stars
And light of day, the gloom of hell
Behind him left, a sad return 1145
Laments; for this his welcome home
He finds more sorrowful by far
- ↑ Reading, haud quisquam honeste flere, quod voluit, potest.
