Heracles Mad (1210-1234)

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.