Atossa monologue — Four Plays of Aeschylus

Friends, whosoe’er is versed in human ills, Knoweth right well that when a wave of woe Comes on a man, he sees in all things fear; While, in flood-tide of fortune, ’tis his mood To take that fortune as unchangeable, Wafting him ever forward. Mark me now— The gods’ thwart purpose doth confront mine eyes, And all is terror to me; in mine ears There sounds a cry, but not of triumph now— So am I scared at heart by woe so great. Therefore I wend forth from the house anew, Borne in no car of state, nor robed in pride As heretofore, but bringing, for the sire Who did beget my son, libations meet For holy rites that shall appease the dead— The sweet white milk, drawn from a spotless cow, The oozing drop of golden honey, culled By the flower-haunting bee, and therewithal Pure draughts of water from a virgin spring; And lo! besides, the stainless effluence, Born of the wild vine’s bosom, shining store Treasured to age, this bright and luscious wine. And eke the fragrant fruit upon the bough Of the grey olive-tree, which lives its life In sprouting leafage, and the twining flowers, Bright children of the earth’s fertility. But you, O friends! above these offerings poured To reconcile the dead, ring out your dirge To summon up Darius from the shades, Himself a shade; and I will pour these draughts, Which earth shall drink, unto the gods of hell.