Deianira, the wife of Hercules, fears that she has lost her husband's love, and that it has been transferred to the beautiful captive Iole, whom he has brought back with him on his return in triumph from the storming of Oechalia. She bethinks her of a love-charm which she has long had among her treasures. It is the blood of Nessus, the Centaur, who, having offered her violence, and received his death-wound from Hercules in her defence, had perfidiously persuaded her that his blood would win back her husband's love. The blood, being infected with the poison of the Lernsean Hydra, in which the arrows of Hercules were dipped, proves the deadly instrument of the Centaur's posthumous vengeance. Deianira sends a robe sprinkled with it as a gift to Hercules, who, having put on the robe to offer his triumphal sacrifice, expires in fiery torments. The play is called from the Trachinian women who form the Chorus. * * * * * _THE LOVE-CHARM._ Deianira imparts the secret of her device to the Chorus, and puts the fatal robe into the hands of Lichas, the Herald who has brought Iole to the house, that he may carry it to Hercules. LINES 531-632. DEIANIRA. Good friends, while yonder stranger, ere he part, Is talking to the captive maids within, I come forth secretly to speak to you. What I devise I would to you confide, And for my trouble I crave your sympathy. That maid, a maid no more I guess, but wed, I have received on board my barque, a bale Of mockery and of outrage for my heart; And now we twain beneath one quilt must lie, And share the same embrace. Thus Heracles, That excellent and faithful spouse of mine, Repays the long-tried guardian of his home. To play the angry wife I know not how, So oft has he been sick of this disease. But with this wench to dwell in partnership As second wife, what woman could endure? My youthful beauty now is on the wane, While hers is growing, and the lover's eye Turns from the withering to the blooming flower. Heracles will, I fear, be mine in name, In deed, the husband of a younger wife. But, as I said, no wife not void of sense Will show her wrath. The talisman, my friends, That is to work the cure ye now shall hear. I hold safe treasured in a brazen urn The keepsake which a Centaur gave of old. From shaggy Nessus when I was a maid I had it, 'twas his dying legacy. He over deep Evenus stream was wont In his own arms to carry passengers, Not using oars nor sails to ferry them. And when, from my paternal home sent forth, A bride I journeyed with my Heracles, Bearing me on his back, in the midstream He laid rash hands on me. I shrieked aloud. The son of Zeus turned him and quick let fly A shaft that, hurtling through the Centaur's chest, Transfixed him. Feeling that his end was come, The monster said to me, "Old Oeneus' child, As thou art my last fare, hearken to me: Thou shall have cause to thank thy ferryman. If thou wilt bear away this clotted blood