Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/172

142

If man find hurt, yet clasp his honour still,

'Tis well; the dead have honour, nought beside.

Hurt, with dishonour, wins no word of praise!

Ah, what is thy desire?

Let not the lust and ravin of the sword

Bear thee adown the tide accursed, abhorred!

Fling off thy passion's rage, thy spirit's prompting dire!

Nay—since the god is urgent for our doom,

Let Laïus' house, by Phoebus loathed and scorned,

Follow the gale of destiny, and win

Its great inheritance, the gulf of hell!

Ruthless thy craving is—

Craving for kindred and forbidden blood

To be outpoured—a sacrifice imbrued

With sin, a bitter fruit of murderous enmities!

Yea, my own father's fateful Curse proclaims—

A ghastly presence, and her eyes are dry—

''Strike! honour is the prize, not life prolonged!''

Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare

To call thee coward, in thy throned estate!