Her. Whose son doth he who feeds them boast to be?
Cho. Ares' son, king of the golden targe of Thrace.
Her. This toil again is but a piece of my ill-luck; hard it ever is and still is growing steeper, if I with Ares' own-begotten sons must fight, first with Lycaon, next with Cycnus, while now I am bound on this third contest to engage the horses and their master. Yet shall no man ever see Alcmena's son trembling at his foemen's prowess.
Cho. See where Admetus, lord of this land, comes in person from the palace forth.
Adm. Hail! son of Zeus, from Perseus sprung.
Her. Joy to thee also, Admetus, king of Thessaly.
Adm. Would there were! yet thy kindly heart I know full well.
Her. Why dost thou appear with head shorn thus in mourning?
Adm. To-day I am to bury one who is dead.
Her. Heaven avert calamity from thy children!
Adm. The children I have begotten are alive within my house.
Her. Thy father maybe is gone; well, he was ripe to go.
Adm. No, Heracles, he lives; my mother too.
Her. It cannot be thy wife is dead, thy Alcestis?
Adm. I can a twofold tale tell about her.
Her. Dost mean that she is dead, or living still?
Adm. She lives, yet lives no more; that is my grief.
Her. I am no wiser yet; thy words are riddles to me.
Adm. Knowest thou not the doom she must undergo?
Her. I know she did submit to die in thy stead.
Adm. How then is she still alive, if so she promised?
Her. Ah! weep not thy wife before the day, put that off till then.
Adm. The doomed is dead; the dead no more exists.
Her. Men count to be and not to be something apart.
Adm. Thy verdict this, O Heracles, mine another.
