Hercules
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My son, my son, where art thou? In thy arms
Raise me, support me. O my cruel fate!
This fierce, immedicable, wasting pest
Attacks, again attacks me; wretched me!
O Pallas, it consumes me. O my son,
In pity to thy father draw thy sword,
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And plunge it deep into my throat; the deed
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Will not be impious; heal these torturing pangs
Inflicted by thy mother's wicked hands:
Oh might I see her fall'n, thus fall'n, as me
Her arts have sunk! Thou monarch of the dead,
Brother of Jove, give me a speedy death,
And lay, oh lay a tortured wretch at rest!
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.