Epeisodion 3
Chorus
Ares’ son, king of the golden targe of Thrace.
Heracles
This toil again is but a piece of my ill-luck;
hard it ever is and still is growing steeper, if I with Ares’ own-begotten sons must fight, first with Lycaon, next with Cycnus, while now I am bound on this third contest to engage the horses and their master.
500
Yet shall no man ever see Alcmena’s son trembling at his foemen’s prowess.
505
Chorus
See where Admetus, lord of this land, comes in person from the palace forth.
Admetus
Hail! son of Zeus, from Perseus sprung.
Heracles
Joy to thee also, Admetus, king of Thessaly.
510
Admetus
Would there were! yet thy kindly heart I know full well.
Heracles
Why dost thou appear with head shorn thus in mourning?
Admetus
To-day I am to bury one who is dead.
Heracles
Heaven avert calamity from thy children!
Admetus
The children I have begotten are alive within my house.
515
Heracles
Thy father maybe is gone; well, he was ripe to go.
Admetus
No, Heracles, he lives; my mother too.
Heracles
It cannot be thy wife is dead, thy Alcestis?
Admetus
I can a twofold tale tell about her.
Heracles
Dost mean that she is dead, or living still?
520
Admetus
She lives, yet lives no more; that is my grief.
Heracles
I am no wiser yet; thy words are riddles to me.
Admetus
Knowest thou not the doom she must undergo?
