Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/155

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Gods of our city, see me not enslaved!

On me, on all, thy cries bring slavery.

Zeus, strong to smite, turn upon foes thy blow!

Zeus, what a curse are women, wrought by thee!

Weak wretches, even as men, when cities fall.

What! clasping gods, yet voicing thy despair?

In the sick heart, fear maketh prey of speech.

Light is the thing I ask thee—do my will!

Ask swiftly: swiftly shall I know my power.

Silence, weak wretch! nor put thy friends in fear.