Collected Works

And whom the old man Nereus might wish to be his relative.
We, your humble slave-girls, will draw the assigned tasks:
And our threads will diminish the full distaffs.
I pray that your wife does not harass me too much:
Who, I know not how, will not be equal to me.
And do not allow my hair to be torn in your presence:
And say lightly: "This one was also ours."
Or allow it, provided I am not left behind, despised.
This fear shakes my bones, miserable as I am.
Yet what are you waiting for? Agamemnon repents of his anger.
And grieving Greece lies before your feet.
Overcome your temper: and your anger: you who overcome all else.
Why does the tireless Hector tear apart the Greek resources?
Take up your arms, descendant of Aeacus Achilles: but accept me first:
And press the men confused by your favorable war.
For my sake it was moved: for my sake let the anger end.
And may I be the cause and the measure of your sadness.
And do not think it shameful to succumb to our pleas:
The wife of Oenides Meleager was turned to arms by a plea.
The story I heard: it is known to you: she was bereaved of her brothers,
And her parent cursed the hope and the head of her son.
He was fierce in war. He withdrew from laid-down arms:
And with a rigid mind denied help to his country.
Only his wife, happier than that one, swayed the man.
But my words fall with no weight.
Yet I do not take offense: nor did I behave as a wife,
Often called a servant to the master’s bed.
I remember a certain captive called me 'mistress'.
I said, "You add the burden of the name to my servitude."
Yet, by the bones of my husband, suddenly and poorly covered in a tomb:
Bones forever to be revered by my judgment:
And by the brave souls of my three brothers, my gods:
Who lie well for their country, and with their country:
And by your head and mine, which we joined as one:
And by your swords, weapons known to mine:
I swear that no Mycenaean has shared my bed:
May you desert me if I lie.
If I say to you now: "You, too, bravest one, swear
That no joys were had by you without me," would you deny it?
But the Greeks think you mourn: the lyre is played for you:
A soft mistress holds you in a warm embrace.
And if anyone asks why you refuse to fight:
"War harms: the lyre, and the night, and Venus delight."