The King Of Argos monologue — Four Plays of Aeschylus

Yea, and woes manifold, invincible, A crowd of ills, sweep on me torrent-like. My bark goes forth upon a sea of troubles Unfathomed, ill to traverse, harbourless. For if my deed shall match not your demand, Dire, beyond shot of speech, shall be the bane Your death’s pollution leaves unto this land. Yet if against your kin, Aegyptus’ race, Before our gates I front the doom of war, Will not the city’s loss be sore? Shall men For women’s sake incarnadine the ground? But yet the wrath of Zeus, the suppliants’ lord I needs must fear: most awful unto man The terror of his anger. Thou, old man, The father of these maidens, gather up Within your arms these wands of suppliance, And lay them at the altars manifold Of all our country’s gods, that all the town Know, by this sign, that ye come here to sue. Nor, in thy haste, do thou say aught of me. Swift is this folk to censure those who rule; But, if they see these signs of suppliance, It well may chance that each will pity you, And loathe the young men’s violent pursuit; And thus a fairer favour you may find: For, to the helpless, each man’s heart is kind.