Was buried in sleep, sailing away,

Forgetful through and through.

They say that, raging in the passion in her heart,

She would release deeply felt and audible words,

Then climbed the steep mountains in sadness

To extend from there her view over the vast swell

Of sea, then sallied forth into the salt waves

Dancing before her and raising her soft clothes

To bear her calves, uttered in sorrow these final complaints,

Preparing cold little sobs on wet lips:

‘Was it for this I was taken from my father’s hearth, traitor,

For you to leave me on an empty shore, traitor, Theseus?

So you leave me, heedless of the gods’ authority,

Forgetful, ah. Do you carry home your perjured vows?

Could nothing alter the intention in your cruel mind?

Could there be no mercy to tempt you to take

Pity on me for all your hardness of heart?

These were not the promises you once made

Me in a warming tone, these are not what you bade

My wretchedness to hope for, but a happy marriage,

Longed-for wedding songs, everything

The wandering breezes have scattered vain.

May no woman now believe a man when he makes a promise,

May no woman hope the words of her man are true.

While their minds are desirous, desperate to obtain something,

They are afraid of swearing nothing,

There is nothing they won’t promise.

But as soon as the lust in their desirous minds is sated,

They remember none of their words,

Have no fear of perjury.

There’s no doubt I seized you as you tossed

Mid death throes, and more than that I elected to lose

My half-brother rather than fail you,

Deceitful man, in your final hour.

For that I am to be torn apart by beasts and given to birds

As prey – and no mound of earth will be piled upon my corpse.

What kind of lioness bore you beneath a lonely rock,

What sea conceived you and spat you out from its foaming waves,

What Syrtis, what fierce Scylla, what monstrous Charybdis,

You, who offer such returns for your sweet life?

If a marriage to me was not in your heart

Because you feared the savage reprimands of your aged father

You might still have led me to your home

To be a slave to you in a joyous labour,

Washing your white feet with pure water,

Spreading your bed with a purple bedspread.

But I have been felled by trouble so why pile

Fruitless complaints on the dumb winds which lack

The feelings to hear

My words and respond in kind?

He is almost mid ocean now,

No human shape is visible on dull seaweed.

So far does cruel fate mock me in my desperate

Times and begrudge even ears to my complaints.

All-powerful Jupiter, I wish the ships of Cecrops

Had not touched the shores of Cnossos in the first place,

That the traitor, bringing a gruesome tribute to