Or allow you to carry the signs of good fortune,

But first I shall free my heart of countless laments,

And pour soil over my white hair and defile it with ash,

Then hang dyed sails from my bending mast

So that sails dipped in Iberian rust may proclaim

This grief of mine, this blaze in my head.

But if Minerva of sacred Itonus, who agreed to defend our race

And the seat of Erechtheus, allows you to sprinkle your

Right hand with the blood of the bull,

Then see that these commands endure,

Kept safe in your remembering heart –

May no time erase them.

As soon as your eyes light upon our hills

Drop each black cloth from the yards

And let your twisted ropes hoist white sails

So as soon as possible I may see them and know

True happiness in my heart, as the blessed

Hour brings you back to me.’

These instructions, which until now Theseus was holding

Constantly in his thoughts, seeped away

Like clouds struck by a blast of wind

From the high summit of a snowy mountain.

But his father, as he sought a view from the top of the citadel,

Spilt a flood of tears from his anxious eyes

As soon as he caught sight of the billowing sails,

And threw himself headlong from the top

Of the cliffs

Assuming Theseus lost to cruel fate.

So savage Theseus entered a household

Decked in mourning for his father’s death

And caught the same sort of grief

He had imposed on the daughter of Minos

Through the neglectfulness of his heart.

Then she, watching in her sorrow his ship

Disappearing, drifted from one worry

To another in her wounded heart.

But from another part of the cloth

Flew in vigorous Bacchus

With his throng of Satyrs and Silenes from Nysa,

Seeking you, Ariadne, burning in love for you.

His followers were raging all over, out of their wits,

‘Euhoe!’ bacchantes tossing their heads with cries ‘Euhoe!’

One section were shaking sticks with covered tips,

Another were hurling the limbs of a dismembered bullock,

Others were dressing themselves in plaits of snakes,

Others were gathering in worship of sacraments

Concealed in hollow baskets,

Rites which the profane long to hear, but in vain.

Others were patting drums with outstretched palms,

Or causing round cymbal tin to ring and ring,

Many had horns which blew booming booms

And the Phrygian flute shrieked in shrill song.

ALCIBIADES

Alcibiades

Cornelius Nepos

Translated by William Casey, 1828