I have sojourned in the Muse's land, Have wandered with the wandering star, Seeking for strength, and in my hand Held all philosophies that are; Yet nothing could I hear nor see Stronger than That Which Needs Must Be. No Orphic rune, no Thracian scroll, Hath magic to avert the morrow; No healing all those medicines brave Apollo to the Asclepiad gave; Pale herbs of comfort in the bowl Of man's wide sorrow. She hath no temple, she alone, Nor image where a man may kneel; No blood upon her altar-stone Crying shall make her hear nor feel. I know thy greatness; come not great Beyond my dreams, O Power of Fate! Aye, Zeus himself shall not unclose His purpose save by thy decerning. The chain of iron, the Scythian sword, It yields and shivers at thy word; Thy heart is as the rock, and knows No ruth, nor turning. Her hand hath caught thee; yea, the keeping Of iron fingers grips thee round. Be still. Be still. Thy noise of weeping Shall raise no lost one from the ground. Nay, even the Sons of God are parted At last from joy, and pine in death.... Oh, dear on earth when all did love her, Oh, dearer lost beyond recover: Of women all the bravest-hearted Hath pressed thy lips and breathed thy breath. Let not the earth that lies upon her Be deemed a grave-mound of the dead. Let honour, as the Gods have honour, Be hers, till men shall bow the head, And strangers, climbing from the city Her slanting path, shall muse and say: "This woman died to save her lover, And liveth blest, the stars above her: Hail, Holy One, and grant thy pity!" So pass the wondering words away.

Chorus Monologue from Alcestis

Rehearse Chorus's monologue