The man that smote him, he beguiled my soul;
And I, too late, when knowledge nought avails,710
That knowledge gain. For, if my soul errs not,
I, I alone (ah me!) shall work his death;
For well I know the piercing dart sore vexed
E'en Cheiron, though a God,[1] and, where it smites,
Lays low in death all monsters. Can it be
That this black venom, oozing from his wounds,
With blood commingled, shall not slay him too?
So I at least must deem; yet deem I too
If he shall die, that I shall die with him720
By that same death-stroke; since for one to live
With evil fame who makes her chiefest boast
Not to be evil, that is hard to bear.
Chor. We needs must shrink at thought of dreadful deeds,
Yet should not count too soon on good or ill.
Deian. Not so, not so; in schemes that are not good
There is no hope to give one confidence.
Chor. And yet for those who sin not wilfully
Anger is softened; and that case is thine.
Deian. Such words one well might speak, who does not share
The ill, on whom no evil presses close.730
Enter Hyllos.
Chor. 'Twere well that thou should'st cease all further speech,
Unless thou sayest aught to this thy son;
For here he comes who went to seek his sire.
- ↑ The legend ran that when the Kentaurs took refuge in Cheiron's cave on Pelion, Heracles, who was pursuing them, wounded Cheiron in the knee, and he, being a God, could neither be healed nor die, till Zeus gave to him to descend to Hades in lieu of Prometheus.
