Be 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.CreusaO the horror of all I suffered then! O the horror of what is to follow now! To and fro from bad to good we toss, though now the gale is shifting round. May it remain steady! the past brought sorrows enough; but now hath a fair breeze sprung up, my son, to waft us out of woe.