Page:Atalanta in Calydon - a tragedy (IA atalantaincalydo00swinrich).pdf/101

 And if he feed not, shall not thy flesh faint? Or drink not, are not thy lips dead for thirst? This thing moves more than all things, even thy son, That thou cleave to him; and he shall honour thee, Thy womb that bare him and the breasts he knew, Reverencing most for thy sake all his gods.

But these the gods too gave me, and these my son, Not reverencing his gods nor mine own heart Nor the old sweet years nor all venerable things, But cruel, and in his ravin like a beast, Hath taken away to slay them: yea, and she She the strange woman, she the flower, the sword, Red from spilt blood, a mortal flower to men, Adorable, detestable—even she Saw with strange eyes and with strange lips rejoiced, Seeing these mine own slain of mine own, and me Made miserable above all miseries made, A grief among all women in the world, A name to be washed out with all men’s tears.

Strengthen thy spirit; is this not also a god, Chance, and the wheel of all necessities?