But use me like a stranger, whom thine hand

Hath fed by chance and finding thence no thanks

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Flung off for shame's sake to forgetfulness.

ERECHTHEUS.

O, of what breath shall such a word be made,

Or from what heart find utterance? Would my tongue

Were rent forth rather from the quivering root

Than made as fire or poison thus for thee.

PRAXITHEA.

But if thou speak of blood, and I that hear

Be chosen of all for this land's love to die

And save to thee thy city, know this well,

Happiest I hold me of her seed alive.

ERECHTHEUS.

O sun that seest, what saying was this of thine,

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God, that thy power has breathed into my lips?

For from no sunlit shrine darkling it came.

[Pg 15]

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