O sun that seest, what saying was this of thine,
God, that thy power has breathed into my lips? 280
For from no sunlit shrine darkling it came.


PRAXITHEA.

What portent from the mid oracular place
Hath smitten thee so like a curse that flies
Wingless, to waste men with its plagues? yet speak.


ERECHTHEUS.

Thy blood the Gods require not; take this first.


PRAXITHEA.

To me than thee more grievous this should sound.


ERECHTHEUS.

That word rang truer and bitterer than it knew.


PRAXITHEA.

This is not then thy grief, to see me die?