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Chor. Blessed are those whose life no woe doth taste!

For unto those whose house

The Gods have shaken, nothing fails of curse

Or woe, that creeps to generations far.

E'en thus a wave, (when spreads,

With blasts from Thrakian coasts,

The darkness of the deep,)

Up from the sea's abyss

Hither and thither rolls the black sand on,

And every jutting peak,

Swept by the storm-wind's strength,

Lashed by the fierce wild waves,

Re-echoes with the far-resounding roar.

I see the woes that smote, in ancient days,

The seed of Labdacos,

Who perished long ago, with grief on grief

Still falling, nor does this age rescue that;

Some God still smites it down,

Nor have they any end:

For now there rose a gleam,

Over the last weak shoots,

That sprang from out the race of Œdipus;

Yet this the blood-stained scythe

Of those that reign below

Cuts off relentlessly,

And maddened speech, and frenzied rage of heart.

Thy power, Ο Zeus, what haughtiness of man,

Yea, what can hold in check?

Which neither sleep, that maketh all things old,