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The Tragedies of Seneca

To sate thy wrath? A mortal woman's hate
Has far excelled thine own. 'Twas late thy shame, 1190
To feel thyself by Hercules alone
Outmatched; but now must thou confess thyself
By two o'ercome. Shame on such heavenly wrath!
Oh, that the Nemean lion of my blood
Had drunk his till, and Oh, that I had fed
The hydra with his hundred snaky heads
Upon my gore! Oh, that the centaurs fierce 1195
Had made a prey of me; or 'midst the shades
I, bound upon the everlasting rock,
Were sitting, lost in misery! But no:
From every distant land I've taken spoil,
While fate looked on amazed; from hellish Styx
Have I come back to earth; the bonds of Dis
I have o'ercome. Death shunned me everywhere, 1200
That I might lack at last a glorious end.
Alas for all the monsters I have slain!
Oh, why did not three-headed Cerberus,
When he had seen the sunlight, drag me back
To hell? Why, far away 'neath western skies,
Did not the monstrous shepherd lay me low?
And those twin serpents huge—ah, woe is me,
How often have I 'scaped a glorious death! 1205
What honor comes from such an end at this?

Chorus: Dost see how, conscious of his fame,
He does not shrink from Lethe's stream?
Not grief for death, but shame he feels
At this his cause of death; he longs
Beneath some giant's vasty bulk 1210
To draw his final breath, to feel
Some mountain-heaving Titan's weight
Oppressing him, to owe his death
To some wild, raging beast. But no,
Poor soul, because of thine own hand
There is no deadly monster more. 1215
What worthy author of thy death,
Save that right hand of thine, is left?

Hercules: Alas, what Scorpion, what Cancer, torn