Lord, King, our Zeus! and thou, daughter of Demeter! grant a lover’s boon!
What do you want? who are you?
Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus, of Phylace, one of the Achaean host, the first that died at Troy. And the boon I ask is release and one day’s life.
Ah, friend, that is the love that all these dead men love, and none shall ever win.
Nay, dread lord, ’tis not life I love, but the bride that I left new wedded in my chamber that day I sailed away—ah me, to be slain by Hector as my foot touched land! My lord, that yearning gives me no peace. I return content, if she might look on me but for an hour.
Did you miss your dose of Lethe, man?
Nay, lord; but this prevailed against it.
Oh, well, wait a little; she will come to you dne day; it is so simple; no need for you to be going up.
My heart is sick with hope deferred; thou too, O Pluto, hast loved; thou knowest what love is.
What good will it do you to come to life for a day, and then renew your pains?
I think to win her to come with me, and bring two dead for one.
It may not be; it never has been.
Bethink thee, Pluto. 'Twas for this same cause that ye gave Orpheus his Eurydice; and Heracles had interest enough to be granted Alcestis; she was of my kin.
Would you like to present that bare ugly skull to your fair bride? will she admit you, when she cannot tell you from another man? I know well enough; she will be frightened and run from you, and you will have gone all that way for nothing.
Husband, doctor that disease yourself: tell Hermes, as soon as Protesilaus reaches the light, to touch him with his wand, and make him young and fair as when he left the bridal chamber.
Well, I cannot refuse a lady. Hermes, take him up and turn him into a bridegroom. But mind, you sir, a strictly temporary one,