The Trojan Women
Euripides
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.
- Yet, you aged foot, make one painful struggle to haste, that I may say a farewell to this wretched town. O Troy, that before had such a grand career among barbarian towns, soon will you be bereft of that splendid name. They are burning you, and leading us even now from our land
- to slavery. O gods! Yet why do I call on the gods? They did not hearken ever before to our call. Come, let us rush into the flames, for to die with my country in its blazing ruin would be a noble death for me.
- Your sorrows drive you frantic, poor lady.
- Go, lead her away, make no delay, for you must deliver her into the hand of Odysseus, conveying to him his prize.
- Woe! oh woe! Son of Cronos, prince of Phrygia, father of our race,
- do you behold our sufferings now, unworthy of the stock of Dardanus?
- He sees them, but our mighty city is a city no more, and Troy’s day is done.
- Woe! oh woe!
- Ilium is ablaze; the homes of Pergamos and its towering walls are now one sheet of flame.
- As the smoke soars on wings to heaven, so sinks our city to the ground before the spear.
- With furious haste both fire and enemy spear devour each house.
- Oh, earth, nourisher of my children!
- Ah, ah!
- Hearken, my children, hear your mother’s voice.
- You are calling on the dead with voice of lamentation.
- Yes, as I stretch my aged limbs upon the ground, and beat upon the earth with both my hands.
- I follow you and kneel, invoking from the nether world my hapless husband.
- I am being dragged and hurried away—