Chorus.
O! Assume it now!
And, as 'twere, this high deck and laurelled poop
Of a most stately vessel honour duly.
King.
Indeed, when I look round me and behold
This haunt of Gods all branched and shaded o'er,
I shudder.
Chorus.
Where is he who would not pause?
The wrath of Zeus the Suppliant's God is heavy.
Stop not thine ears, O son of Palaechthon,
Nor hold thy heart aloof, thou royal man,
But hearken when I cry to thee, whose throne
Is over this wide realm Pelasgian.
Behold, in me a suppliant sues for grace,
A hunted thing still forced to shift her ground,
Like to a heifer with the wolves in chase
That to the herd doth lowingly complain
Upon some rocky precipice crag-bound,
Trusting his strength and telling him her pain.
King.
Methinks I see this gathering of the Gods
Of festival, with branches freshly plucked
All shaded o'er, nodding in grave assent.
Oh, may your cause who claim to be our kin
Work us no mischief, nor on any hand
Strife grow from what we neither could foresee
Nor have provided for. That to this realm
Were an unwanted, a superfluous care.
