But I feared, for my lords be stern,
That I held my peace: but thy lot ill-fated
In silence aye I compassionated,
Lest the child of the daughter of Zeus[1] should discern 145
O'er thy woes how I yearn.
Enter Hermionê.
Hermione.
With bravery of gold about mine head,
And on my form this pomp of broidered robes,
Hither I come:—no gifts be these I wear
Or from Achilles' or from Peleus' house; 150
But from the Land Laconian Sparta-crowned
My father Menelaus with rich dower
Gave these, that so my tongue should not be tied.[2]
To you[3] I render answer in these words.
But thou, a woman-thrall, won by the spear, 155
Wouldst cast me out, and have this home thine own;
And through thy spells I am hated by my lord;
My womb is barren, ruined all of thee:
For cunning is the soul of Asia's daughters
For such deeds. Yet therefrom will I stay thee: 160
And this the Nereid's fane shall help thee nought,
Altar nor temple;—thou shalt die, shalt die!
Yea, though one stoop to save thee, man or God,
Yet must thou for thy haughty spirit of old
