Io monologue — Four Plays of Aeschylus

Alack! what land, what folk are here? Whom see I clenched in rocky fetters drear Unto the stormy crag? for what thing done Dost thou in agony atone? Ah, tell me whither, well-a-day! My feet have roamed their weary way? Ah, but it maddens, the sting! it burns in my piteous side! Ah, but the vision, the spectre, the earth-born, the myriad-eyed! Avoid thee! Earth, hide him, thine offspring! he cometh—O aspect of ill! Ghostly, and crafty of face, and dead, but pursuing me still! Ah, woe upon me, woe ineffable! He steals upon my track, a hound of hell— Where’er I stray, along the sands and brine, Weary and foodless, come his creeping eyne! And ah, the ghostly sound— The wax-stopped reed-flute’s weird and drowsy drone! Alack my wandering woes, that round and round Lead me in many mazes, lost, foredone! O child of Cronos! for what deed of wrong Am I enthralled by thee in penance long? Why by the stinging bruise, the thing of fear, Dost thou torment me, heart and brain? Nay, give me rather to the flames that sear, Or to some hidden grave, Or to the rending jaws, the monsters of the main! Nor grudge the boon for which I crave, O king! Enough, enough of weary wandering, Pangs from which none can save! Hearken! in pity hold Io, the ox-horned maid, thy love of old!