The Suppliants (734-775)

O Zeus, why do men assert the wisdom of the wretched

human race? On thee we all depend, and all we do is only what thou listest. We thought our Argos irresistible, ourselves a young and lusty host, and so when Eteocles was for making terms,

in spite of his fair offer we would not accept them, and so we perished. Then in their turn those foolish folk of Cadmus, to fortune raised, like some beggar with his newly-gotten wealth, waxed wanton, and, waxing so, were ruined in their turn. Ye foolish sons of men! who strain your bow like men who shoot

beyond their mark, and only by suffering many evils as ye deserve, though deaf to friends, yet yield to circumstances; ye cities likewise, though ye might by parley end your mischief, yet ye choose the sword instead of reason to settle all disputes.

But wherefore these reflections? This I fain would learn, the way thou didst escape; and after that I will ask thee of the rest.

During the uproar which prevailed in the city owing to the battle, I passed the gates, just as the host had entered them.

Are ye bringing the bodies, for the which the strife arose?

Ay, each of the seven chiefs who led their famous hosts.

What sayest thou? the rest who fell—say, where are they?

They have found burial in the dells of Cithseron.

On this or that side of the mount? And who did bury them?

Theseus buried them ’neath the shadow of Eleutherae’s cliff.

Where didst thou leave the dead he hath not buried?

Not far away; earnest haste makes every goal look close.

No doubt in sorrow slaves would gather them from the carnage.

Slaves! not one of them was set to do this toil.

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Thou wouldst say so, hadst thou been there to see his loving tendance of the dead.

Did he himself wash the bloody wounds of the hapless youths?

Ay, and strewed their biers and wrapped them in their shrouds.

An awful burden[*] this, involving some disgrace.

Why, what disgrace to men are their fellows’ sorrows?

Ah me! how much rather had I died with them!

’Tis vain to weep and move to tears these women.

Methinks ’tis they who give the lesson. Enough[*] of that! My hands I lift at meeting of the dead, and pour forth a tearful dirge to Hades, calling on my friends,

whose loss I mourn in wretched solitude; for this one thing, when once ’tis spent, man cannot recover, the breath of life, though he knoweth ways to get his wealth again.