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But do not thou press on;

Thy life if Fortune crowneth, none

As coward thee will brand.

Thy house Erinys, black with storm, will leave,

When, proffer'd by thy hand,

Due meed of sacrifice the gods receive.

The gods, methinks, have long neglected us,

Our doom the only offering they esteem.

Why longer fawn then upon deadly fate?

Now is the very hour

When near she stands. Her hostile power

At length may own the sway

Of tardy change-wind, and in kindlier mood

Attend thee on thy way;

But now she seethes with fury unsubdued.

Seethed over hath the curse of Œdipus.

Too true the Phantoms of my nightly dreams,

Ghastly dividers of our father's wealth.

To women yield, although thou love them not.

Say what may yet be done, and speak in brief.