The lion's whelp, the archer bold, whose bow
Shall set me free. This is the oracle
Themis, my ancient Mother, Titan-born,
Disclosed to me; but how and in what wise
Were long to tell, nor would it profit thee.
Io.
Again they come, again
The fury and the pain!
The gangrened wound! The ache of pulses dinned
With raging throes!
It beats upon my brain—the burning wind
That madness blows!
It pricks—the barb, the hook not forged with heat,
The gadfly dart!
Against my ribs with thud of trampling feet
Hammers my heart!
And like a bowling wheel mine eyeballs spin,
And I am flung
By fierce winds from my course, nor can rein in
My frantic tongue
That raves I know not what!—a random tide
Of words—a froth
Of muddied waters buffeting the wide,
High-crested, hateful wave of ruin and God's wrath!
Chorus.
I hold him wise who first in his own mind
This canon fixed and taught it to mankind:—
True marriage is the union that mates
Equal with equal; not where wealth emasculates,
Or mighty lineage is magnified,
Should he who earns his bread look for a bride.
