Alas for me! Am I a bastard, then, bom in thy maiden days?CreusaNor nuptial torch nor dance, my child, ushered in my wedding and thy birth.IonO mother, mother! whence do I draw my base origin?CreusaBe witness she who slew the Gorgon, IonWhat meanest thou?CreusaShe that on my native rocks makes the olive-clad hill her seat.IonThy words to me are but as cunning riddles. I cannot read them.CreusaHard by the rock with nightingales melodious, Phoebus, IonWhy dost thou mention Phoebus?CreusaForced on me his secret love.IonSay on; for thy story will crown me with fame and fortune.CreusaAnd as the tenth month came round I bore a child to Phoebus in secret. IonOh! thy happy tidings, if thy story is true.CreusaAnd 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.IonAn awful deed! O mother!CreusaFear held me captive, and I cast thy life away, my child; I would, though loth, have slain thee too.IonThou too wert all but slain by me most impiously.