Oh mighty Jove! and tutelary divinities of our city! ye that do in very deed protect these towers of Cadmus, am I to rejoice and raise a joyous hymn to the savior of our city, the averter of mischief, or shall I bewail the miserable and ill-fated childless (168) commanders, who, in very truth, correctly, according to their name, (169) full of rancor, have perished in impious purpose? Oh dark and fatal curse of the race and of OEdipus, what horrible chill is this that is falling upon my heart? (170) I, like a Thyiad, have framed a dirge for the tomb, hearing of the dead, dabbled in blood, that perished haplessly--verily this meeting of spears was ill-omened. The imprecation of the father hath taken full effect, and hath not failed: and the unbelieving schemes of Laius have lasted even until now; and care is through our city, and the divine declarations lose not their edge--Alas! worthy of many a sigh, ye have accomplished this horror surpassing credence; and lamentable sufferings have come indeed. This is self-evident, the tale of the messenger is before my eyes--Double are our sorrows, double are the horrors of them that have fallen by mutual slaughter; doubly shared are these consummated sufferings. What shall I say? What, but that of a certainty troubles on troubles are constant inmates of this house? But, my friends, ply the speeding stroke of your hands about your heads, before the gale of sighs, which ever wafts on its passage the bark, on which no sighs are heard, with sable sails, the freighted with the dead, untrodden for Apollo, the sunless, across Acheron, and to the invisible all-receiving shore. (171) But (enough)! for here are coming to this bitter office both Antigone and Ismene. I am assured beyond all doubt that they will send forth a fitting wail from their lovely deep-cinctured bosoms. And right it is that we, before the sound of their wailing reach us, both ejaculate the dismal-sounding chaunt of Erinnys, and sing a hateful paean to Pluto. Alas! ye that are the most hapless in your sisterhood of all women that fling the zone around their robes, I weep, I mourn, and there is no guile about so as not to be truly wailing from my very soul.

Ch Monologue from Prometheus Bound

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