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Short is my word and clear. Of Argive race

We come, from her the ox-horned maiden who

Erst bare the sacred child. My word shall give

Whate'er can stablish this my soothfast tale.

O stranger maids, I may not trust this word,

That ye have share in this our Argive race.

No likeness of our country do ye bear,

But semblance as of Libyan womankind.

Even such a stock by Nilus' banks might grow;

And like to you the moulds, the handicraft

Of men, made like unto a woman's shape

In Cyprus born. Of roving Indian maids

Whose camping-grounds by Æthiopia lie,

And camels burdened even as mules, and bearing

Riders, as horses bear, mine ears have heard;

And tales of flesh-devouring mateless maids

Called Amazons: to these, if bows ye bare,

I most had deemed you like. Speak further yet,

That of your Argive birth the truth I learn.

Here in this Argive land—so runs the tale—

Io was priestess once of Hera's fane.

Yea, truth it is, and far this word prevails:

Is't said that Zeus with mortal mingled love?