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Many hot toils and hard beyond report,
980
With sturdy thews and sinews I have borne,
980
But no such labour hath the Thunderer’s wife
980
Or sour Eurystheus ever given, as this,
980
Which Oeneus’ daughter of the treacherous eye
Hath fastened on my back, this amply-woven
Net of the Furies, that is breaking me.
For, glued unto my side, it hath devoured
My flesh to the bone, and lodging in the lungs
It drains the vital channels, and hath drunk
The fresh life-blood, and ruins all my frame,
Foiled in the tangle of a viewless bond.
Yet me nor War-host, nor Earth’s giant brood,
Nor Centaur’s monstrous violence could subdue,
Nor Hellas, nor the Stranger, nor all lands
Where I have gone, cleansing the world from harms.
But a soft woman without manhood’s strain
Alone and weaponless hath conquered me.
Son, let me know thee mine true-born, nor rate
985
Thy mother’s claim beyond thy sire’s, but bring
985
Thyself from out the chambers to my hand
985
Her body that hath borne thee, that my heart
985
May be assured, if lesser than my pain
It will distress thee to behold her limbs
With righteous torment agonized and torn.
Nay, shrink not, son, but pity me, whom all
May pity—me, who, like a tender girl,
Am heard to weep aloud! This none could say
He knew in me of old; for, murmuring not,
I went with evil fortune, silent still.
Now, such a foe hath found the woman in me!
Ay, but come near; stand by me, and behold
What cause I have for crying. Look but here!
Here is the mystery unveiled. O see!
Ye people, gaze on this poor quivering flesh,
Look with compassion on my misery!
Many hot toils and hard beyond report,
980
With sturdy thews and sinews I have borne,
980
But no such labour hath the Thunderer’s wife
980
Or sour Eurystheus ever given, as this,
980
Which Oeneus’ daughter of the treacherous eye
Hath fastened on my back, this amply-woven
Net of the Furies, that is breaking me.
For, glued unto my side, it hath devoured
My flesh to the bone, and lodging in the lungs
It drains the vital channels, and hath drunk
The fresh life-blood, and ruins all my frame,
Foiled in the tangle of a viewless bond.
Yet me nor War-host, nor Earth’s giant brood,
Nor Centaur’s monstrous violence could subdue,
Nor Hellas, nor the Stranger, nor all lands
Where I have gone, cleansing the world from harms.
But a soft woman without manhood’s strain
Alone and weaponless hath conquered me.
Son, let me know thee mine true-born, nor rate
985
Thy mother’s claim beyond thy sire’s, but bring
985
Thyself from out the chambers to my hand
985
Her body that hath borne thee, that my heart
985
May be assured, if lesser than my pain
It will distress thee to behold her limbs
With righteous torment agonized and torn.
Nay, shrink not, son, but pity me, whom all
May pity—me, who, like a tender girl,
Am heard to weep aloud! This none could say
He knew in me of old; for, murmuring not,
I went with evil fortune, silent still.
Now, such a foe hath found the woman in me!
Ay, but come near; stand by me, and behold
What cause I have for crying. Look but here!
Here is the mystery unveiled. O see!
Ye people, gaze on this poor quivering flesh,
Look with compassion on my misery!
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.