But ye, if now ye seek some alien soil,
Will of this land enamour'd be; of this
You I forewarn; for onward-flowing time
Shall these my lieges raise to loftier fame;
And thou, in venerable seat enshrined
Hard by Erectheus' temple, shalt receive
Honours from men and trains of women, such
As thou from other mortals ne'er may'st win.
But cast ye not abroad on these my realms, 820
To waste their building strength, whetstones of blood,
Evoking frantic rage not born of wine;
Nor, as out-plucking hearts of fighting-cocks,
Plant ye among my townsmen civil strife,
Reckless of kindred blood; let foreign war
Rage without stint, affording ample scope
For him who burns with glory's mighty rage.
No war of home-bred cocks, I ween, is that!
Such terms I proffer, thine it is to choose;
Blessing and blest, with blessed rites revered, 830
To share this country dear unto the gods.
Chorus.
1.That I should suffer this, oh Fie!
2.That, old in wisdom, I on earth should dwell
Dishonour'd! Fie! Debasement vile!
3.Rage I breathe forth, and wrath no stint that knows.
4.Fie! Fie! O earth, alas!
5.What agony of pain creeps o'er my heart!
6.Hear, Mother Night, my passion.
7. Mark for scorn,
By crafty gods deluded, held for nought,
Of ancient honour I am basely shorn. 840
