Theseus
if the dead have yet a sense
Of honours. Thou dost hate them: but thy hate
Is in words only; thou canst bear to live
Amidst thy father's murderers. But my soul
Would never bend, would never yield to them,
No, should they bring me all those gorgeous gifts
With which thou now art deck'd. To thee be placed
A table richly spread, with dishes piled;
But let my homely fare be only such
As nature loaths not. I have not a wish
To gain thy honours; nor indeed wou'dst thou,
Did reason rule thee. Now thou might'st he call'd
The daughter of a father first in fame;
Be call'd thy mother's: so shalt thou appear,
To all that judge aright, of nature base,
False to thy murder'd father, and his friends.
Electra. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.