Lady, the daughter of Thestius, and thou, son, Not ignorant of your strife nor light of wit, Scared with vain dreams and fluttering like spent fire, I come to judge between you, but a king Full of past days and wise from years endured. Nor thee I praise, who art fain to undo things done; Nor thee, who art swift to esteem them overmuch. For what the hours have given is given, and this Changeless; howbeit these change, and in good time Devise new things and good, not one thing still. Us have they sent now at our need for help Among men armed a woman, foreign born, Virgin, not like the natural flower of things That grows and bears and brings forth fruit and dies, Unlovable, no light for a husband's house, Espoused; a glory among unwedded girls, And chosen of gods who reverence maidenhood. These too we honour in honouring her; but thou, Abstain thy feet from following, and thine eyes From amorous touch; nor set toward hers thine heart, Son, lest hate bear no deadlier fruit than love. ALTHAEA. O king, thou art wise, but wisdom halts, and just, But the gods love not justice more than fate, And smite the righteous and the violent mouth, And mix with insolent blood the reverent man's, And bruise the holier as the lying lips. Enough; for wise words fail me, and my heart Takes fire and trembles flamewise, O my son, O child, for thine head's sake; mine eyes wax thick, Turning toward thee, so goodly a weaponed man, So glorious; and for love of thine own eyes They are darkened, and tears burn them, fierce as fire, And my lips pause and my soul sinks with love. But by thine hand, by thy sweet life and eyes, By thy great heart and these clasped knees, O son, I pray thee that thou slay me not with thee. For there was never a mother woman-born Loved her sons better; and never a queen of men More perfect in her heart toward whom she loved. For what lies light on many and they forget, Small things and transitory as a wind o' the sea, I forget never; I have seen thee all thine years A man in arms, strong and a joy to men Seeing thine head glitter and thine hand burn its way Through a heavy and iron furrow of sundering spears; But always also a flower of three suns old, The small one thing that lying drew down my life To lie with thee and feed thee; a child and weak, Mine, a delight to no man, sweet to me. Who then sought to thee? who gat help? who knew If thou wert goodly? nay, no man at all. Or what sea saw thee, or sounded with thine oar, Child? or what strange land shone with war through thee? But fair for me thou wert, O little life, Fruitless, the fruit of mine own flesh, and blind, More than much gold, ungrown, a foolish flower. For silver nor bright snow nor feather of foam Was whiter, and no gold yellower than thine hair, O child, my child; and now thou art lordlier grown, Not lovelier, nor a new thing in mine eyes,