The shaken Pelops kyngdomes doste
of Dardan dwell on yet,

Healpe me: of cruell slawghter showe
who may the author bee.

Let rage my yre on all: my foe
he ys, who so to mee

Showes not my foe. doste thou yet hydd
Alcides victour lye?

Come foorthe, even whether thow revenge
the cruell chariots hye

Of bloudy Thracian kyng, or yf
thow Geryons catell quyght,

Or lordes of Libya, no delaye
there ys with thee to fyght.

Beholde I naked stande, althowgh
even with wy weapons loe

Thow me unarmed sette uppon.
wherfore fleeth Theseus soe

And eke my father from my syght?
theyr faces why hyde they?

Deferre your weepyngs, and who dyd
my wyfe and chyldren sley

Thus all at ones, me tell. Wherfore
O father doest thow whushte?

But tell thow Theseu, but Theseu
with thy accustomde truste.

Eche of them sylent hydes awaye
their bashefull cowntnawnces,

And pryuelye they shedde their teares.
In so greate yls as thes,

Of what owghte we ashamde to bee?
dothe ruler yet of myght

Of Argos towne, or hatefull bande
Of sowldyars apte to fyght

Of Lycus dyinge, us oppresse
with such calamytee?

By prayse of all my noble actes
I do desyre of thee

O father, and of thy great name
approvde to me alwaye

The prosperous powre, declare to me,
who dyd my housholde slaye?

Whose praye laye I? A. Let thus thyne yls
in sylence overpas.

HE. That I shoulde unrevenged bee?
AM. Revenge ofte hurtfull was.

HE. Dyd ever man so grevows ylles
without revenge sustayne?

A. Whos’ever greater feard. H. Then these,
O father yet agayne

May any greater thing, or els
More grevows feared bee?

AM. How greate a parte is it thow wotst,
Of thy calamitee?

HER. Take mercy father, lo I lyfte
to thee my humble handes.

What meaneth this? my hand Heeth backe,
some privye gylte here standes.

Whēce coms this blood? or what doth mean
flowyng with deathe of chyllde

The shafte, enbrewde with slawghter once
of Lerney monster kyllde?

I see my weapons nowe, the hande
I seeke no more to wyt.

Whose hand could bend this bow but myne?
or what ryght arme but yt

Coulde stryng the bowe, that unto me
Even scantely doothe obaye?

To you I tourne: O father deere,
is thys my gylte I praye?

They healde theyr peace: it is myne owne.
AM. Thy greevous woe is there,

The cryme thy stepdames: this myschawnce
no fawte of thyne hath here.

THE SIEGE OF JOTAPATA

Jewish War, Book III

Josephus

Translated by H. St. J. Thackeray, 1926