Heracles Mad (1370-1418)

a fair name, a glorious advantage from a father. You too, unhappy wife, this hand has slain, a poor return to make you for preserving the honor of my bed so safely, for all the weary watch you long have kept within my house. Alas for you, my wife, my sons! alas for me,

how sad my lot, cut off from wife and child! Ah! these kisses, bitter-sweet! these weapons which it is pain to own! I am not sure whether to keep or let them go; dangling at my side they thus will say,

With us you destroyed children and wife; we are your children’s slayers, and you keep us. Shall I carry them after that? what answer can I make? Yet, am I to strip myself of these weapons, the comrades of my glorious career in Hellas, and put myself in the power of my foes, to die a death of shame?

No! I must not let them go, but keep them, though it grieves me. In one thing, Theseus, help my misery; come to Argos and help me to manage the conveyance of the wretched dog; lest, if I go all alone, my sorrow for my sons may do me some hurt.

O land of Cadmus, and all you people of Thebes!

cut off your hair, and mourn with me; go to my children’s burial, and with one dirge lament us all, the dead and me; for on all of us has Hera inflicted the same cruel blow of destruction.

Rise, unhappy man! you have had your fill of tears.

I cannot rise; my limbs are rooted here.

Yes, even the strong are overthrown by misfortunes.

Ah! Would I could become a stone upon this spot, oblivious of trouble.

Peace! give your hand to a friend and helper.

No, let me not wipe off the blood upon your robe.

Wipe it off and spare not; I will not refuse you.

Bereft of my own sons, I find you as a son to me.

Throw your arm about my neck; I will be your guide.

A pair of friends indeed, but one a man of sorrows. Ah! aged father, this is the kind of man to make a friend.

Blessed in her sons, the country that gave him birth!

Theseus, turn me back again to see my children.

What for? Do you think to find a drug in this to soothe your soul?

I long to do so, and would embrace my father.

Here am I, my son; your wish is no less dear to me.

Have you so short a memory for your troubles?

All that I endured before was easier to bear than this.

If anyone sees you play the woman, they will scoff.

Have I by living grown so abject in your sight? It was not so once, I think.

Yes, too much so; in your sickness you are not the glorious Heracles.

What about you? What kind of hero were you when in trouble in the world below?

I was worse than anyone as far as courage went.

How then can you say of me, that I am abased by my troubles?

Forward!