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436
Nay, I entreat thee by His name, whose fire
Lightens down Oeta’s topmost glen, be not
A niggard of the truth. Thou tell’st thy tale
To no weak woman, but to one who knows
Mankind are never constant to one joy.
Whoso would buffet Love, aspires in vain.
For Love leads even Immortals at his will,
And me. Then how not others, like to me?
’Twere madness, sure, in me to blame my lord
When this hath caught him, or the woman there,
His innocent accomplice in a thing,
No shame to either, and no harm to me.
It is not so. But if from him thou learnest
440
The lore of falsehood, it were best unlearnt;
440
Or if the instruction comes of thine own thought,
440
Such would-be kindness doth not prove thee kind.
Then tell me all the truth. To one free-born
The name of liar is a hateful lot.
And thou canst not be hid. Thy news was heard
By many, who will tell me. If thou fearest,
Thou hast no cause—for doubtfulness is pain,
But to know all, what harm? His loves ere now
Were they not manifold? And none hath borne
Reproach or evil word from me. She shall not,
Though his new passion were as strong as death;
Since most mine eye hath pitied her, because
Her beauty was the ruin of her life,
445
And all unweeting, she her own bright land,
445
Poor hapless one! hath ravaged and enslaved.—
445
Let that be as it must. But for thy part,
Though false to others, be still true to me.
Nay, I entreat thee by His name, whose fire
Lightens down Oeta’s topmost glen, be not
A niggard of the truth. Thou tell’st thy tale
To no weak woman, but to one who knows
Mankind are never constant to one joy.
Whoso would buffet Love, aspires in vain.
For Love leads even Immortals at his will,
And me. Then how not others, like to me?
’Twere madness, sure, in me to blame my lord
When this hath caught him, or the woman there,
His innocent accomplice in a thing,
No shame to either, and no harm to me.
It is not so. But if from him thou learnest
440
The lore of falsehood, it were best unlearnt;
440
Or if the instruction comes of thine own thought,
440
Such would-be kindness doth not prove thee kind.
Then tell me all the truth. To one free-born
The name of liar is a hateful lot.
And thou canst not be hid. Thy news was heard
By many, who will tell me. If thou fearest,
Thou hast no cause—for doubtfulness is pain,
But to know all, what harm? His loves ere now
Were they not manifold? And none hath borne
Reproach or evil word from me. She shall not,
Though his new passion were as strong as death;
Since most mine eye hath pitied her, because
Her beauty was the ruin of her life,
445
And all unweeting, she her own bright land,
445
Poor hapless one! hath ravaged and enslaved.—
445
Let that be as it must. But for thy part,
Though false to others, be still true to me.
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.