Nor I, left lorn, should thus mine ills bemoan.

Yet all that may the fortunate betide
Fell to thy lot; in manhood's prime a king:
Me hadst thou son and heir unto thine house, ⁠655
So that thou wast not, dying, like to leave
A childless home for stranger folk to spoil.
Nor canst thou say that flouting thy grey hairs
I gave thee o'er to death, whose reverence
For thee was passing word:—and this the thank ⁠660
That thou and she that bear me render me!
Wherefore, make haste: beget thee other sons
To foster thy grey hairs, to compass thee
With death's observance, and lay out thy corpse.
Not I with this mine hand will bury thee. ⁠665
For thee dead am I. If I see the light,—
Another saviour found,—I call me son
To her, and loving fosterer of her age.
For nought the agèd pray for death's release,
Plaining of age and weary-wearing time. ⁠670
Let death draw near—who then would die? Not one:
No more is eld a burden unto them.

O hush! Suffice the affliction at the doors.
O son, infuriate not thy father's soul.

Son, whom, think'st thou—some Lydian slave or Phrygian ⁠675
Bought with thy money?—thus beratest thou?
What, know'st thou not that I Thessalian am,
Sprung from Thessalian sire, free man true-born?
This insolence passeth!—hurling malapert words