Herakles.
Fling from your hair these cerements of the grave:
Look up to the light, beholding with your eyes
Exchange right welcome from the nether-gloom.
And I—for now work lieth to mine hand— 565
Will first go, and will raze to earth the house
Of this new king, his impious head smite off
And cast to dogs to rend. Of Thebans, all
Found traitors after my good deeds to them,
Some will I slay with this victorious mace, 570
And the rest scatter with my feathered shafts,
With slaughter of corpses all Ismenus fill,
And Dirkê's pure stream red with blood shall run.
For whom should I defend above my wife
And sons and aged sire? Great toils, farewell! 575
Vainly I wrought them, leaving these unhelped!
I ought defending these to die, if these
Die for their father:—else, what honour comes
Of hydra and of lion faced in fight
At king Eurystheus' hests, and from my sons 580
Death not averted? How shall I be called
Herakles the Victorious, as of old?
Chorus.
'Tis just the father should defend the sons,
The grey sire, and the yokemate of his life.
Amphitryon.
Son, worthy of thee it is to love thy friends, 585
To hate thy foes: yet be not over rash.
Herakles.
Herein what showeth, father, haste unmeet?
