[_She falls upon her sword and dies._] _Theseus:_ Ye jaws of wan Avernus, and ye caves Of Taenara, ye floods of Lethe's stream, A soothing balm to hearts o'ercome with grief, Ye sluggish pools: take ye my impious soul And plunge me deep in your eternal woes. Now come, ye savage monsters of the deep, Whatever Proteus hides within his caves, 1205 And drown me in your pools, me who rejoice In crime so hideous. O father, thou Who ever dost too readily assent Unto my wrathful prayers, I merit not An easy death, who on my son have brought A death so strange, and scattered through the fields His mangled limbs; who, while, as austere judge, I sought to punish evil falsely charged, 1210 Have fallen myself into the pit of crime. For heaven, hell, and seas have by my sins Been peopled; now no further lot remains; Three kingdoms know me now. Was it for this That I returned? Was heaven's light restored To me that I might see two funerals, A double death? That I, bereft of wife 1215 And son, should with one torch upon the pyre Consume them both? Thou giver of the light Which has so baleful proved, O, Hercules, Take back thy boon, and give me up again To Dis; restore me to the curséd shades Whom I escaped. Oh, impious, in vain I call upon that death I left behind. 1220 Thou bloody man, well skilled in deadly arts, Who hast contrived unwonted ways of death And terrible, now deal unto thyself The fitting punishment. Let some great pine Be bent to earth and hurl thee high in air; Or let me headlong leap from Sciron's cliff. 1225 More dreadful punishments have I beheld, Which Phlegethon upon the guilty souls Encircled by his fiery stream inflicts. What suffering awaits me, and what place, Full well I know. Make room, ye guilty shades; On me, me only, let that rock be placed, The everlasting toil of Sisyphus, 1230 And let these wearied hands upbear its weight; Let cooling waters lap and mock my lips; Let that fell vulture fly from Tityos, And let my vitals ever living be For punishment. And thou, Ixion, sire 1235 Of my Pirithoüs, take rest awhile, And let the wheel that never stops its flight Bear these my limbs upon its whirling rim. Now yawn, O earth, and chaos dire, receive, I pray, receive me to your depths; for thus 'Tis fitting that I journey to the shades. I go to meet my son. And fear thou not, 1240 Thou king of dead men's souls; I come in peace To that eternal home, whence ne'er again Shall I come forth. My prayers move not the gods. But if some impious plea I made to them, How ready would they be to grant my prayer!