Adr. Wilt bury him apart as a consecrated corpse?
The. Even so; but all the rest on one funeral pyre.
Adr. Where wilt thou set the tomb apart for him?
The. Here near this temple have I builded him a sepulchre.
Adr. Thy thralls forthwith must undertake this toil.
The. Myself will look to those others; let the biers advance.
Adr. Approach your sons, unhappy mothers.
The. This thy proposal, Adrastus, is anything but good.
Adr. Must not the mothers touch their sons?
The. It would kill them to see how they are altered.
Adr. 'Tis bitter, truly, to see the dead even[1] at the moment of death.
The. Why then wilt thou add fresh grief to them?
Adr. Thou art right. Ye[2] needs must patiently abide, for the words of Theseus are good. But when we have committed them unto the flames, ye shall collect their bones. O wretched sons of men! Why do ye get you weapons and bring slaughter on one another? Cease therefrom, give o'er your toiling, and in mutual peace keep safe your cities. Short is the span of life, so 'twere best to run its course as lightly as we may, from trouble free.
Cho. No more a happy mother I, with children blest; no more I share, among Argive women, who have sons, their happy lot; nor any more will Artemis in the hour of travail kindly greet these childless mothers. Most dreary is my life, and like some wandering cloud I drift before the howling blast. The seven noblest sons in Argos once we had, we seven hapless mothers; but now my sons are dead, I have no child, and on me steals old age in piteous wise,
