Alas for me! Am I a bastard, then, bom in thy maiden days? Creusa Nor nuptial torch nor dance, my child, ushered in my wedding and thy birth. Ion O mother, mother! whence do I draw my base origin? Creusa Be witness she who slew the Gorgon, Ion What meanest thou? Creusa She that on my native rocks makes the olive-clad hill her seat. Ion Thy words to me are but as cunning riddles. I cannot read them. Creusa Hard by the rock with nightingales melodious, Phoebus, Ion Why dost thou mention Phoebus? Creusa Forced on me his secret love. Ion Say on; for thy story will crown me with fame and fortune. Creusa And as the tenth month came round I bore a child to Phoebus in secret. Ion Oh! thy happy tidings, if thy story is true. Creusa And about thee as swaddling-clothes I fastened this my maiden work, the faulty efforts of my loom. But to my breast I never held thy lips, or suckled or washed thee with a mother’s care; but in a desert cave wert thou cast out to die, for taloned kites to rend and feast upon. Ion An awful deed! O mother! Creusa Fear held me captive, and I cast thy life away, my child; I would, though loth, have slain thee too. Ion Thou too wert all but slain by me most impiously.