Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/153

Rh To do things horrible they importune me!

There is a voice which cries 'Swift death were sweet!'

Hear it not, child! No man shall call thee base

If on thy life there dawn a better day!

Hereafter, if the Gods thy offerings grace,

Will not black-stoled Erinys steal away?

What are the Gods to me! Methinks the hour

When we regarded them is long gone by!

No offering in their eyes is of such worth

As our perdition! Why then pay them court?

Why cringe for respite from the final doom?

Yield now, while yet thou hast the chance! The wind

May change with time, that blows so contrary,

And thy bad Genius at last be kind!

But now thou battiest with a boiling sea!

Ay! with the yeasty waves of Œdipus

His curse! There was too much of solid sooth

In the slight, fleeting visions of my dreams:

They make division of my father's substance!

Thou art no friend to woman: yet, wilt hear me?

If thou hast ought to say a man may do,

Speak on; and in few words withal!

Go not

Where thou art going—to the Seventh Gate!