Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1898) v3.djvu/146

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Sore lack was his of justice and of right!

The Gods' thralls are we—whatsoe'er gods be.

And doth not Loxias shield thee in thine ills?

He long delays—such is the Gods' wont still.

How long since passed thy mother's breath away?

The sixth day this: the death-pyre yet is warm.

How soon those Powers required thy mother's blood!

Not wise, but loyal friend to friends was I.

Thy sire's avenging—doth it aught avail thee?

Naught yet:—delay I count as deedlessness.