According to his worth; but in their homes
To dwell in liberty, from women free.

That woman is a grievous curse is clear;
He who begets and breeds her adds a dower
And sends her forth, to rid himself of ill;
And he who takes the bane into his house
Delights to put fair ornaments upon

This basest idol, decks it out with robes,

And squanders-wretched man!- his household joy!
It must be that, delighted to have gained
Good kinsmen, he endures a hateful wife,
Or, winning happy wedlock, useless kin,

He finds the evil overborne by good.

Most blest his lot within whose home is set

As wife a harmless, silly nobody!

I hate a clever woman: in my house

Be no one sager than befits her sex.
For Kypris oftener stirs up villainy
Within the clever; but the guileless wife
Is saved from folly by her slender wit!

No servant should approach the wife's abode,
But speechless animals should dwell with her,
That she may have not one to whom to speak,
Nor ever hear from them an answering voice.
But now the wicked weave their plots within
For mischief, and their servants bear them forth;
Even as thou, O evil one, hast come

To proffer me my father's sacred rights!

This I will purge away with running brooks,
Cleansing my ears. Could I be evil, then,
Who hold myself defiled to hear such words?
And woman, know, my reverence saves thy life.
Were I not, unawares, so bound by oaths,
I would have straightway told my father this:
But now, while Theseus is in other lands,

I leave his halls, and we will hold our peace;
But coming with my father, I'll behold
How thou wilt face him,- and thy mistress too!
Thy insolence I shall know, who tasted it.
Perish your sex! Nor will I ever tire
Of hating women, though men say I speak
Of nothing else: for base they always are.

Either let some one teach them self-restraint,

Or else let me attack them evermore!

HIPPOLYTUS'S DISASTER

From Three Dramas of Euripides: copyright 1889, by W. C. Lawton, and reprinted by permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

E, NEAR the sea-shore, where it greets the waves,

WE

Were currying with combs our horses' manes,
Lamenting; for the message came to us

That in this land Hippolytus should set foot
No more, to wretched exile sent by thee.
He also, with the selfsame tale of tears,
Came to us on the beach, and following him,
A myriad throng of comrades marched along.
After a time he ceased to weep, and said:
་ Why am I frenzied thus? I must obey
My father: harness to the car my steeds,
O slaves; for now this city is mine no more:"
And thereupon did every man make haste.
Quicker than one could speak, we set the steeds,
All fully harnessed, at their master's side.
Then from the chariot rail he seized the reins,
Upon the footboard set his booted feet;

And first, with hands upraised to heaven, he said:
"Zeus, may I live no more, if I am base!
But may my sire know how he does me wrong,
Whether I lie in death, or see the light."

With that he took the goad in hand, and urged
The colts; and we attendants by his car
Followed, beside our lord, along the road
Toward Argos and to Epidauria.

When we had entered the deserted land,

There was a coast that lies beside this realm,

Bordering already the Saronic gulf.

There, like Zeus's thunder, from the earth a roar

Resounded deep,- a fearful thing to hear!

The horses pricked their ears, and raised their heads

Aloft; and on us boyish terror fell,

Wondering whence came the sound; but then we glanced

Toward the sea-beaten shore, and saw a wave

Divine, that rose to heaven, so that mine eye

Beheld no longer the Skironian crags;
The isthmus and Asclepios's rock were hid.
Swelling aloft, and white with bubbling foam,
With roaring sound the billow neared the spot
Where on the beach the four-horse chariot stood.
And from the mighty breaker as it fell,

A bull, a furious monster, issued forth.
The land, that with his bellowings was filled,
Re-echoed fearfully, and we who gazed
Found it too grim a sight to look upon.
A dreadful panic seized at once the steeds.
Their master, fully trained in all the arts
Of horsemanship, laid hold upon the reins,
And pulled as does a sailor at the oar,
Back-leaning, all his weight upon the thongs.
But champing with their jaws the fire-wrought bit,
They burst away; nor could the pilot hand,
Nor curb, nor massive chariot hold them in.
And now, if toward a softer spot of earth

The helmsman strove to turn and guide their course,
The bull appeared in front, and drove them back,
Maddening with affright the four-horse team.
Or if with frenzied mind they neared the rocks,
He followed silent at the chariot's rim,
Until he overthrew and cast it down,
Dashing the wheel against a stone. Then all
Lay wildly mingled. High aloft were tossed
The naves, and linchpins from the axletrees.
While he, poor wretch, entangled in the reins,
Was dragged along, inextricably bound.
His gentle head was dashed upon the rock,

His flesh was bruised; and piteous were his words:
"Stand! ye who at my mangers took your food,
And crush me not! Alas! my father's curse!
Who is there here will save an upright man?"
And many would; but we were come too late,
With tardy feet. So he, released from thongs
And well-cut reins,- but how I do not know,
Is fallen, breathing yet a little life.

The steeds and cursèd bull were hid from sight,
But where I know not, in the rocky land.

[And then the messenger lifts his head defiantly to face the unrelenting King, and adds: -]

I am a slave within thy house, O King,
But this at least I never will believe,
That he, thy son, was guilty: not although
The whole of womankind go hang themselves,
And with their letters fill the pines that grow
On Ida. For that he was noble I know!

HECUBA HEARS THE STORY OF HER DAUGHTER'S DEATH Translation of J. A. Symonds: published by Harper & Brothers

HE whole vast concourse of the Achaian host

THE

Stood round the tomb to see your daughter die.
Achilleus's son, taking her by the hand,

Placed her upon the mound, and I stayed near;
And youths, the flower of Greece, a chosen few,
With hands to check thy heifer, should she bound,
Attended. From a cup of carven gold,

Raised full of wine, Achilleus's son poured forth
Libation to his sire, and bade me sound

Silence throughout the whole Achaian host.

I, standing there, cried in the midst these words:
"Silence, Achaians! let the host be still!

Hush, hold your voices!" Breathless stayed the crowd;
But he:-"O son of Peleus, father mine,

Take these libations pleasant to thy soul,

Draughts that allure the dead: come, drink the black
Pure maiden's blood wherewith the host and I
Sue thee: be kindly to us; loose our prows,

And let our barks go free; give safe return
Homeward from Troy to all, and happy voyage."
Such words he spake, and the crowd prayed assent.
Then from the scabbard, by its golden hilt,
He drew the sword, and to the chosen youths
Signaled that they should bring the maid; but she,
Knowing her hour was come, spake thus, and said:-

་

"O men of Argos, who have sacked my town,
Lo, of free will I die! Let no man touch
My body: boldly will I stretch my throat.
Nay, but I pray you set me free, then slay;
That free I thus may perish: 'mong the dead,
Being a queen, I blush to be called slave."
The people shouted, and King Agamemnon

Bade the youths loose the maid, and set her free:
She, when she heard the order of the chiefs,
Seizing her mantle, from the shoulder down
To the soft centre of her snowy waist

Tore it, and showed her breasts and bosom fair
As in a statue. Bending then with knee
On earth, she spake a speech most piteous:-
"See you this breast, O youth? If breast you will,

Strike it; take heart: or if beneath my neck,
Lo! here my throat is ready for your sword!"
He, willing not, yet willing,- pity-stirred
In sorrow for the maiden,- with his blade
Severed the channels of her breath: blood flowed;
And she, though dying, still had thought to fall
In seemly wise, hiding what eyes should see not.
But when she breathed her life out from the blow,
Then was the Argive host in divers way

Of service parted; for some, bringing leaves,
Strewed them upon the corpse; some piled a pyre,
Dragging pine trunks and boughs; and he who bore none,
Heard from the bearers many a bitter word:
"Standest thou, villain? hast thou then no robe,
No funeral honors for the maid to bring?
Wilt thou not go and get for her who died

Most nobly, bravest-souled, some gift?" Thus they
Spake of thy child in death:-"O thou most blessed
Of women in thy daughter, most undone!"

MEDEA RESOLVING TO SLAY HER CHILDREN

O

SONS, my sons, for you there is a home

And city where, forsaking wretched me,

Ye shall still dwell and have no mother more:

But I, an exile, seek another land,

Ere I have joyed in you and seen you glad,
Ere I have decked for you the nuptial pomp,
The bride, the bed, and held the torch aloft.
Oh me! forlorn by my untempered moods!
In vain then have I nurtured ye, my sons,
In vain have toiled and been worn down by cares,
And felt the hard child-bearing agonies.

There was a time when I, unhappy one,
Had many hopes in you, that both of you
Would cherish me in age; and that your hands,
When I am dead, would fitly lay me out-
That wish of all men: but now lost indeed

Is that sweet thought, for I must, reft of you,

Live on a piteous life and full of pain:
And ye, your dear eyes will no more behold
Your mother, gone into your new strange life.
Alas! Why do ye fix your eyes on me,