Euripides. The Plays of Euripides, Translated into English Prose from the Text of Paley. Vol. I. Coleridge, Edward P., translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1906.
ungrateful traitors to their loves!
O! thou who dost awake that tuneful lyre with seven strings till to its sweet note of music the lifeless pegs of wild ox-hom resound again,
thou child of Latona, to yon 293 bright orb of thine will I publish thy reproach. Yes, I saw thee come, the glint of gold upon thy locks, as I was gathering in my folded robe the saffron blooms
that blazed like flowers of gold; and by my lily wrist didst thou catch me and ledst me to the cavern’s bed, what time I cried aloud upon my mother’s name,—thou a god
to mate with me in shameless wise to pleasure lady Cypris! Then to my sorrow I bore thee a son, whom, though anguish thrilled my mother’s breast, I cast upon that bed of thine,
where thou didst join in woful wedlock this unhappy maid. Ah! woe is me! that poor babe I bare thee is now no more; winged fowls have tom and devoured him,
but thou art gaily carolling unto thy lyre some song of joy.
Hark! thou son of Latona, to thee I call, for that thou dispensest warnings; there at thy golden throne
on earth’s centre planted will I proclaim a word into thy ear. O! thou wicked bridegroom who art bringing to my husband’s house an heir, though from him thou hast received no boon;
while that child of thine and mine hath died unrecognized, a prey to carrion birds, his mother’s swaddling-clothes all lost. Delos hates thee now, thy bay-tree loves thee not,
whose branches sprout beside the tufted palm, where in holy throes Latona, big with child by Zeus, gave birth to thee.
Ah me! what store of sorrows is here disclosed, enough to draw a tear from every eye!
Daughter, with pity am I filled as a gaze upon thy face; my reason leaves me; for just as I am striving to lighten my spirit of its sea of troubles, comes another wave astern and catches me by reason of thy words; for no sooner hadst thou uttered this tale of present troubles
than thou didst turn aside into a fresh a track of other woes. What is it thou sayest? What charge against Apollo dost thou bring? What child is this thou dost assert that thou didst bear? Where was it in the city that thou didst expose him, for beasts to rejoice o’er his burial? Tell me once again.
Old friend, although to meet thine eye, I am ashamed, yet will I tell thee.
Full well I know how to lend my friends a generous sympathy.
Then hearken; dost know a cave toward the north of Cecrops’ rock, that we call Macrae?
I know it; there is the shrine of Pan, and his altar hard by.
That was the scene of my dire conflict.
What conflict? see how my tears start forth to meet thy words.