Theseus
thou comest a little dust
Closed in a little urn. Unhappy me,
How vain is all my former nurturing care,
All the sweet toil for thee employ'd, how lost!
E'en for thy mother thou didst never show
More fondness than for me; no menial hand
Around thee was engaged; thou wast my charge,
And thy fond tongue still lisp'd thy sister's name.
All these endearments in one day are lost,
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With thee they died; thou, like a rushing storm
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Hast pass'd away, and with thee swept them all.
My father is no more, I am no more,
And death hath snatch'd thee hence; our foes exult;
My mother, how unworthy of that name!
Is wild with joy: yet secret message oft
Aforetime hast thou sent, that thou wou'dst come
Dreadful in vengeance; but unhappy fate,
Thy fate and mine, hath check'd the great intent,
And, for my loved Orestes, sent thee thus,
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Cold ashes, and an unavailing shade.
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Wretched remains! And what a wretch am I!
Thus art thou come? How mournful! Woe is me!
What ruin on thy sister hast thou brought!
Yes, dear Orestes, ruin on my head
Thy death hath brought. O miserable me!
Receive me then within thy sheltering urn.
Nothing to nothing; that henceforth with thee
I in the realms beneath may ever dwell.
For whilst thou here hadst life, with thee I shared
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One common fortune: now it is my wish
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In death to share thy tomb. The dead are free
From all the various woes of mortal life.
