More fortunate than thee, more fairly judged!
This for our son; and for myself I pray,
Soon, having once beheld him, to descend
Into the quiet gloom, where thou art now.
These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife,
I send, and these libations pour the while.
[They make their offerings at the tomb. Merope then turns to go towards the palace.
THE CHORUS.
The dead hath now his offerings duly paid.
But whither go'st thou hence, O Queen, away?
MEROPE.
To receive Arcas, who to-day should come,
Bringing me of my boy the annual news.
THE CHORUS.
No certain news if like the rest it run.
MEROPE.
Certain in this, that 'tis uncertain still.
THE CHORUS.
What keeps him in Arcadia from return?
MEROPE.
His grandsire and his uncles fear the risk.
THE CHORUS.
Of what? it lies with them to make risk none.
