Hercules
What fiery and unutterable pains
With rankling venom pierce my hands, my back
Such not the wife of Jove to me assign'd,
Nor stern Eurystheus, as this treacherous dame,
Daughter of Eneus, whose entangling net,
The texture of the furies, burns my limbs,
And works me death; close to my sides it sticks,
Eats through my skin, and rioting beneath
My vitals drains; already hath it drank
The fresh streams of my blood, and all my flesh
Is wasted, by these gnawing bands consumed.
This not the spear on the ensanguined plain
Uplifted, nor the terrible array
Of earth-born giants, nor the furious force
Of savage beasts roused from their horrid dens,
Nor Grecian, nor Barbarian, nor the rage
Of ruffian bands from which I purged the earth,
Effected; but a single woman, form'd
By nature weak, a woman to the ground
Without a sword hath brought me. But, my son,
Now prove thyself my son, nor more revere
A mother's name; but bring her from the house,
And give her to my hands, that I may know
If more my wretched state afflicts thy heart
Than hers, when thou shalt see her ruin'd form
Defaced by my just vengeance. Go, my son,
Dare this; have pity on me; many feel
The touch of pity for me, as I weep
Like a sick girl lamenting: till this hour
No man can say that e'er his eyes beheld
Such weakness in me; but without a groan
Toils and afflictions always I sustain'd:'.
But now my firmness sinks, and I am found
Amidst my ills a woman. But, my son,
Come to me, nearer stand, come all, observe
From what a malady these torturing pains
I suffer; look, I throw my vests aside,
Behold this wretched body; what a sight
To move your pity! Ah, this burning spasm
Rends me afresh, it plerces through my sides,
No rest this cruel, gnawing best pest allows
Receive me, O thou monarch of the dead!
Strike me, ye bolts of Jove; O king supreme,
Roll thy red thunders, hurl them on this head,
My father! for it riots now again,
Gains strength, grows fiercer. O my hands, my hands,
My back, my breast, my arms! Are these the nerves
In which I gloried once, whose matchless strength
Quell'd the Nemæan lion which the blood
Of slaughter'd herds distain'd, whose savage rage
None dared approach? Are these the nerves, whose might
Crush'd the Lernæan Hydra, and subdued
The host of monsters to the horse's strength
Joining the human form, a lawless band,
To outrage train'd, exulting in brute force?
The Boar of Erymanthus; the grim Dog
Of hell, three-headed monster, by no arms
To be attack'd, from dire Echidna sprung;
The Dragon, guardian of the golden fruit
On earth's remotest verge? These glorious toils,