Euripides. The Plays of Euripides, Translated into English Prose from the Text of Paley. Vol. II. Coleridge, Edward P., translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1891.
in my Asian slippers, by clambering over the cedar-beams that roof the porch and the Doric triglyphs, away, away! O Earth, Earth! in barbaric flight!
Alas! You foreign women, where can I escape, flying through the clear sky or over the sea, which bull-headed Ocean rolls about as he circles the world in his embrace?
What is it, Helen’s slave, creature from Ida?
Ilium, Ilium, oh me! city of Phrygia, and Ida’s holy hill with fruitful soil, how I mourn for your destruction a shrill song
with barbarian cry; destroyed through her beauty, born from a bird, swan-feathered, Leda’s cub, hellish Helen! to be a curse to Apollo’s tower of polished stone. Ah! Alas!
woe to Dardania, its wailing, wailing, for the horsemanship of Ganymede, bedfellow of Zeus.
Tell us clearly each event within the house. for till now I have been guessing at what I do not clearly understand.
Ah, for Linus! Ah, for Linus! That is what barbarians say, alas, in their eastern tongue as a prelude to death, whenever royal blood is spilled upon the ground by deadly iron blades.
To tell you everything in turn, they came into the house, two twin lions of Hellas; one was called the general’s son; the other was the son of Strophius, a crafty plotter, like Odysseus, treacherous in silence,
but true to his friends, bold for the fight, clever in war and a deadly serpent. Curse him for his quiet plotting, the villain!
In they came to the throne of the wife of Paris the archer,
faces wet with tears, and took their seats in all humility, one on this side, one on that, each with weapons. They threw, they threw their suppliant arms round the knees
of Helen. Her Phrygian servants sprang up frantic, frantic; they called to each other in terror that there was treachery.
To some there seemed no cause, but others thought that the viper who killed his mother was entangling the daughter of Tyndareus in the snare of his plot.
And where were you? fled long before in terror?
It happened that I, in Phrygian style, Phrygian, was wafting the breeze, the breeze by the curls of Helen, Helen, with a round feathered fan, before her face,
in barbarian style; and she was twisting flax on her distaff with her fingers, and letting her yarn fall on the floor, for she wanted to sew with her flax purple cloth
as adornment for the tomb from the Trojan spoils, a gift to Clytemnestra.
Orestes said to the Spartan girl: Daughter of Zeus, get up from your chair
and come here to the old hearth of Pelops, our ancestor, to hear something I have to say. He led her, led her, and she followed,