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Hector
Yes, that is fair; I cannot dispute it. Name your wage, except for my sovereignty.
Dolon
I do not covet your toilsome sovereignty.
Hector
Well then, marry a daughter of Priam and become my brother-in-law.
Dolon
No, I do not wish to marry among those beyond my station.
Hector
There's gold, if this you'll claim as your prize.
Dolon
I have it in my home; I lack no sustenance.
Hector
What then is your desire of all that Ilium stores within her?
Dolon
Promise me my gift when you conquer the Achaeans.
Hector
I will give it to you; ask anything except the captains of the fleet.
Dolon
Slay them; I do not ask you to keep your hand off Menelaus.
Hector
Is it the son of Oileus you would ask me for?
Dolon
Hands that are well brought up are worthless at farming.
Hector
Whom then of the Achaeans will you have alive to hold to ransom?
Dolon
I told you before, my house is stored with gold.
Hector
Why then, you shall come and with your own hands choose out some spoil.
Dolon
Chorus
May he come to the ships! May he reach the army of Hellas and spy it out, then turn again and reach the altars of his father's home in Ilium! May he mount the chariot drawn by Phthia's horses, when our master has sacked Achaea's camp, those horses that the sea-god gave to Peleus, son of Aeacus.
Euripides, The Suppliants (ed. E. P. Coleridge), line 1196 (search)
Now listen while I tell you where you must slay the victims. You have within your halls a tripod with brazen feet, which Heracles once, after he had overthrown the foundations of Ilium and was starting on another enterprise, enjoined you to set up at the Pythian shrine. Over it cut the throats of three sheep; then engrave the oaths within the tripod's hollow belly; and then deliver it to the god who watches over Delphi to keep, a witness and memorial unto Hellas of the oaths. And bury the sharp-edged knife, with which you shall have laid the victims open and shed their blood, deep in the bowels of the earth, beside the pyres where the seven chieftains burn; for its appearance shall strike them with dismay, if ever against your town they come, and shall cause them to return with sorrow. When you have done all this, dismiss the dead from your land. And to the god resign as sacred land the spot where their bodies were purified by fire, there by the meeting of the triple roads that le
Euripides, The Trojan Women (ed. E. P. Coleridge), line 1 (search)
Euripides, The Trojan Women (ed. E. P. Coleridge), line 48 (search)
Euripides, The Trojan Women (ed. E. P. Coleridge), line 98 (search)
Hecuba
Lift your head, unhappy one, from the ground; raise up your neck; this is Troy no more, no longer am I queen in Ilium. Though fortune change, endure your lot; sail with the stream, and follow fortune's tack, do not steer your ship of life against the tide, since chance must guide your course. Ah me! ah me! What else but tears is now my hapless lot, whose country, children, husband, all are lost? Ah! the high-blown pride of ancestors, humbled! how brought to nothing after all! What woe must I suppress, or what declare? [What plaintive dirge shall I awake?] Ah, woe is me! the anguish I suffer lying here stretched upon this hard pallet! O my head, my temples, my side! How I long to turn over, and lie now on this, now on that, to rest my back and spine, while ceaselessly my tearful wail ascends. For even this is music to the wretched, to chant their cheerless dirge of sorrow.
Euripides, The Trojan Women (ed. E. P. Coleridge), line 122 (search)
You swift-prowed ships, rowed to sacred Ilium over the deep dark sea, past the fair havens of Hellas, to the flute's ill-omened music and the dulcet voice of pipes, to the bays of Troy, alas! where you tied your hawsers, twisted handiwork from Egypt, in quest of that hateful wife of Menelaus, who brought disgrace on Castor, and on Eurotas foul reproach; who murdered Priam, the father of fifty children; the cause why I, the unhappy Hecuba, have wrecked my life upon this disastrous strand. Oh ver against the tent of Agamemnon! As a slave I am led away from my home, an old woman, while from my head the hair is piteously shorn for grief. Ah! unhappy wives of those armored sons of Troy! Ah! poor maidens, luckless brides, come weep, for Ilium is now a smouldering ruin; and I, like some mother-bird that over her fledgelings screams, will begin the strain; not the same as that I once sang to the gods, as I leaned on Priam's staff and beat with my foot in Phrygian time to lead the dance