Both wands and, round my neck, oracular fillets? Thee, at least, ere my own fate will I ruin: Go, to perdition falling! Boons exchange we — Some other Até in my stead make wealthy! See there — himself, Apollon stripping from me The oracular garment! having looked upon me — Even in these adornments, laughed by friends at, As good as foes, i’ the balance weighed: and vainly — For, called crazed stroller, — as I had been gipsy, Beggar, unhappy, starved to death, — I bore it. And now the Prophet — prophet me undoing, Has led away to these so deadly fortunes! Instead of my sire’s altar, waits the hack-block She struck with first warm bloody sacrificing! Yet nowise unavenged of gods will death be: For there shall come another, our avenger, The mother-slaying scion, father’s doomsman: Fugitive, wanderer, from this land an exile, Back shall he come, — for friends, copestone these curses! For there is sworn a great oath from the gods that Him shall bring hither his fallen sire’s prostration. Why make I then, like an indweller, moaning? Since at the first I foresaw Ilion ’s city Suffering as it has suffered: and who took it, Thus by the judgment of the gods are faring. I go, will suffer, will submit to dying! But, Haides’ gates — these same I call, I speak to, And pray that on an opportune blow chancing, Without a struggle, — blood the calm death bringing In easy outflow, — I this eye may close up!