Heracles Mad (1204-1251)

My son, remove that mantle

from your eyes, throw it from you, show your face to the sun. As a counterweight, fighting along with my tears, I entreat you as a suppliant, as I grasp your beard, your knees, your hands, and let fall

the tear from my old eyes. O my child! restrain your savage lion-like temper, for you are rushing forth on an unholy course of bloodshed, eager to join mischief to mischief, child.

What! Enough! To you I call who are huddled there in your misery,

show to your friends your face; for no darkness is black enough to hide your sad mischance. Why do you wave your hand at me, signifying murder? is it that I may not be polluted by speaking with you?

If I share your misfortune, what is that to me? For once I had good fortune with you. I must refer to the time when you brought me safe from the dead to the light of life. I hate a friend whose gratitude grows old; one who is ready to enjoy his friends’ prosperity

but unwilling to sail in the same ship with them when they are unfortunate. Arise, unveil your head, poor wretch! and look on me. The gallant soul endures such blows as heaven deals and does not refuse them.

O Theseus, did you see this struggle with my children?

I heard of it, and now I see the horrors you mean.

Why then have you unveiled my head to the sun?

Why have I? you, a mortal, can not pollute what is of the gods.

Try to escape, luckless wretch, from my unholy taint.

The avenging fiend does not go forth from friend to friend.

For this I thank you; I do not regret the service I did you.

While I, for kindness then received, now show my pity for you.

Ah yes! I am piteous object, a murderer of my sons.

I weep for you in your changed fortunes.

Did you ever find another more afflicted?

Your misfortunes reach from earth to heaven.

Therefore I am resolved on death.

Do you suppose the gods attend to your threats?

The god has been remorseless to me; so I will be the same to the gods.

Hush! lest your presumption add to your sufferings.

My ship is freighted full with sorrow; there is no room to stow anything further.

What will you do? Where is your fury drifting you?

I will die and return to that world below from which I have just come.

Such language is fit for any common fellow.

Ah! yours is the advice of one outside sorrow.

Are these indeed the words of Heracles, the much-enduring?

Though never so much as this. Endurance must have a limit.