Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/276

258 To sate thy wrath? A mortal woman's hate Has far excelled thine own. 'Twas late thy shame, To feel thyself by Hercules alone Outmatched; but now must thou confess thyself By two o'ercome. Shame on such heavenly wrath! Oh, that the Nemean lion of my blood Had drunk his till, and Oh, that I had fed The hydra with his hundred snaky heads Upon my gore! Oh, that the centaurs fierce Had made a prey of me; or 'midst the shades I, bound upon the everlasting rock, Were sitting, lost in misery! But no: From every distant land I've taken spoil, While fate looked on amazed; from hellish Styx Have I come back to earth; the bonds of Dis I have o'ercome. Death shunned me everywhere, That I might lack at last a glorious end. Alas for all the monsters I have slain! Oh, why did not three-headed Cerberus, When he had seen the sunlight, drag me back To hell? Why, far away 'neath western skies, Did not the monstrous shepherd lay me low? And those twin serpents huge—ah, woe is me, How often have I 'scaped a glorious death! What honor comes from such an end at this? Chorus: Dost see how, conscious of his fame, He does not shrink from Lethe's stream? Not grief for death, but shame he feels At this his cause of death; he longs Beneath some giant's vasty bulk To draw his final breath, to feel Some mountain-heaving Titan's weight Oppressing him, to owe his death To some wild, raging beast. But no, Poor soul, because of thine own hand There is no deadly monster more. What worthy author of thy death, Save that right hand of thine, is left? Hercules: Alas, what Scorpion, what Cancer, torn