The _Chorus_ pledge their faith that the king will honour such a request as long as reason lasts. _Admetus_ addresses a solemn vow to his dying wife, that her will shall be done: Living thou wast mine, {334} And dead thou only shalt be called my wife. It will be only too easy to keep such a pledge as that, for life henceforth will be one long mourning to him. Hence I renounce The feast, the cheerful guest, the flow'ry wreath, {350} And song that used to echo through my house: For never will I touch the lyre again, Nor to the Libyan flute's sweet measures raise My voice: with thee all my delights are dead. Thy beauteous figure, by the artist's hand Skillfully wrought, shall in my bed be laid; By that reclining, I will clasp it to me, And call it by thy name, and think I hold My dear wife in my arms, and have her yet, Though now no more I have her: cold delight {360} I ween, yet thus th' affliction of my soul I shall relieve, and visiting my dreams Shalt thou delight me. O for the power of Orpheus's lyre, that might rescue thee even from the realms of the dead! But there await me till I die; prepare {374} A mansion for me, as again with me To dwell; for in thy tomb I will be laid, In the same cedar, by thy side composed: For e'en in death I will not be disjoin'd From thee who hast alone been faithful to me! As the Chorus join in Admetus's sorrow the pledge is reiterated, and the dying mother is satisfied. _Alc._ Thus pledging, from my hands receive thy children. {386} _Adm._ A much-loved gift, and from a much-loved hand! The strength Alcestis had summoned for her last effort now forsakes her: she sinks rapidly. _Alc._ A heavy weight hangs on my darkened eye. {396} _Adm._ If thou forsake me I am lost indeed! _Alc._ As one that is no more I now am nothing. _Adm._ Ah, raise thy face! forsake not thus thy children! _Alc._ It must be so perforce: farewell, my children. _Adm._ Look on them, but a look. _Alc._ I am no more. _Adm._ How dost thou? Wilt thou leave us so? _Alc._ Farewell. _Adm._ And what a wretch, what a lost wretch am I! _Cho._ She's gone! Thy wife, Admetus, is no more! The little Son flings himself passionately on the corpse [_the metre breaking out into strophic alternations._] _Strophe_