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Strange votive tablets shall these statues deck.

Mysterious thy resolve—avow it clear.

Swiftly to hang me on these sculptured gods!

Thy word is as a lash to urge my heart.

Thou seest truth, for I have cleared thine eyes.

Yea, and woes manifold, invincible,

A crowd of ills, sweep on me torrent-like.

My bark goes forth upon a sea of troubles

Unfathomed, ill to traverse, harbourless.

For if my deed shall match not your demand,

Dire, beyond shot of speech, shall be the bane

Your death's pollution leaves unto this land.

Yet if against your kin, Ægyptus' race,

Before our gates I front the doom of war,

Will not the city's loss be sore? Shall men

For women's sake incarnadine the ground?

But yet the wrath of Zeus, the suppliants' lord,

I needs must fear: most awful unto man

The terror of his anger. Thou, old man,