Creusa: These swathing bands, thy mother's virgin work,
Wove by my flying shuttle, round thy body
I roll'd; but from thy lips my breast withheld,
A mother's nouriture, nor bathed thy bands
In cleansing lavers; but to death exposed thee,
Laid in the dreary cave, to birds of prey
A feast, rent piecemeal by their ravenous beaks.
Ion: Cruel, my mother, was thy deed.
Creusa: By fear
Constrain'd, my son, I cast thy life away;
Unwillingly I left thee there to die.
Ion: And from my hands unholy were thy death.
Creusa: Dreadful was then my fortune, dreadful here,
Whirl'd by the eddying blast from misery there
To misery here, and back again to joy:
Her boisterous winds are changed; may she remain
In this repose: enough of ills are past:
After the storm soft breathes a favouring gale.
Studies
