Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/243



O front of brass, thy subtle tongue would twist

To thy advantage every plea of right.

Why try thy arts on me, why spread again

Toils where ’twould gall me sorest to be snared?

In old days when by self-wrought woes distraught,

I yearned for exile as a glad release,

Thy will refused the favour then I craved.

But when my frenzied grief had spent its force,

And I was fain to taste the sweets of home,

Then thou would’st thrust me from my country, then

These ties of kindred were by thee ignored;

And now again when thou behold’st this State

And all its kindly people welcome me,

Thou seek’st to part us, wrapping in soft words

Hard thoughts. And yet what pleasure canst thou find

In forcing friendship on unwilling foes?

Suppose a man refused to grant some boon

When you importuned him, and afterwards

When you had got your heart’s desire, consented,

Granting a grace from which all grace had fled,

Would not such favour seem an empty boon?

Yet such the boon thou profferest now to me,

Fair in appearance, but when tested false.

Yea, I will prove thee false, that these may hear;

Thou art come to take me, not to take me home,

But plant me on thy borders, that thy State

May so escape annoyance from this land.

That thou shalt never gain, but this instead—

My ghost to haunt thy country without end;

And for my sons, this heritage—no more—

Just room to die in. Have not I more skill

Than thou to draw the horoscope of Thebes? 221