KING. That ye are Argives, this My ear receives not; an unlikely tale! Like Libyan women rather; not a line I trace in you that marks our native race. Nile might produce such daughters; ye do bear A Cyprian character in your female features, The impressed likeness of some plastic male.[f12] Of wandering Indians I have heard, that harness Camels for mules, huge-striding, dwelling near The swarthy Æthiop land; ye may be such; Or, had ye war's accoutrement, the bow, {228} Ye might be Amazons, stern, husband-hating, Flesh-eating maids. But speak, that I may know The truth. How vouch ye your descent from Argos? CHORUS. They say that Io, on this Argive ground, Erst bore the keys to Hera,[n23] then 'tis said, So runs the general rumour--[n24] KING. I have heard. Was it not so, Jove with the mortal maid Mingled in love? CHORUS. Even so; in love they mingled, Deceiving Hera's bed. KING. And how then ended The Olympian strife? CHORUS. Enraged, the Argive goddess To a heifer changed the maid. KING. And the god came To the fair horned heifer? CHORUS. Like a leaping bull, Transformed he came;[n25] so the hoar legend tells. KING. And what did then the potent spouse of Jove? CHORUS. She sent a watchman ringed with eyes to watch. KING. This all-beholding herdsman, who was he? CHORUS. Argus the son of Earth, by Hermes slain. KING. How further fared the ill-fated heifer, say? CHORUS. A persecuting brize was sent to sting her. KING. And o'er the wide earth goaded her the brize? CHORUS. Just so; thy tale with mine accordant chimes. KING. Then to Canopus, and to Memphis came she? CHORUS. There, touched by Jove's boon hand, she bore a son. KING. The heifer's boasted offspring, who was he? CHORUS. Epaphus, who plainly with his name declares His mother's safety wrought by touch of Jove. KING. * * * *[n26] CHORUS. Libya, dowered with a fair land's goodly name. KING. And from this root divine what other shoots? CHORUS. Belus, my father's father, and my uncle's. KING. Who is thy honoured father? CHORUS. Danaus; And fifty sons his brother hath, my uncle. KING. This brother who? Spare not to tell the whole. CHORUS. Ægyptus. Now, O king, our ancient race Thou knowest. Us from our prostration raising, Thou raisest Argos. {229} KING. Argives in sooth ye seem, By old descent participant of the soil; But by what stroke of sore mischance harsh-smitten, Dared ye to wander from your native seats? CHORUS. Pelasgian prince, a motley-threaded web Is human woe; a wing of dappled plumes. Past hope and faith it was that we, whose blood From Argive Io flows, to Io's city, In startled flight, should measure back our way, To escape from hated marriage.