What honor comes from such an end as this? _Chorus:_ Dost see how, conscious of his fame, He does not shrink from Lethe's stream? Not grief for death, but shame he feels At this his cause of death; he longs Beneath some giant's vasty bulk 1210 To draw his final breath, to feel Some mountain-heaving Titan's weight Oppressing him, to owe his death To some wild, raging beast. But no, Poor soul, because of thine own hand There is no deadly monster more. 1215 What worthy author of thy death, Save that right hand of thine, is left? _Hercules:_ Alas, what Scorpion, what Cancer, torn From Summer's burning zone, inflames my breast? My lungs, once filled with pulsing streams of blood, 1220 Are dry and empty now; my liver burns, Its healthy juices parched and dried away; And all my blood is by slow creeping fires Consumed. Destruction on my skin feeds first, Then deep within my flesh it eats its way, 1225 Devours my sides, my limbs and breast consumes, Dries up the very marrow of my bones. There in my empty bones the pest remains; Nor can my massive frame for long endure, But even now, with broken, crumbling joints, Begins to fall away. My strength is gone, 1230 And e'en the limbs of mighty Hercules Are not enough to satisfy this pest. Alas, how mighty must that evil be, When I confess it great! Oh, cruel wrong! Now see, ye cities, see what now remains Of famous Hercules. Dost know thy son, O father Jove? Was't with such arms as these 1235 That I crushed out the Nemean monster's life? Did this hand stretch that mighty bow of mine Which brought to earth from out the very stars The vile Stymphalian birds? These sluggish feet-- Did they outstrip the swiftly fleeing stag, With golden antlers gleaming on his head? Did rocky Calpe, shattered by these hands, 1240 Let out the sea? So many monstrous beasts, So many cruel men, so many kings-- Did these poor hands of mine destroy them all? Upon these shoulders did the heavens rest? Is this my mighty frame? Is this my neck? Are these the hands which once the tottering skies Upheld? Oh, can it be that ever I The Stygian watchdog dragged into the light? 1245 Where are those powers, which ere their proper time Are dead and buried? Why on Jupiter As father do I call? Why, wretched one, Do I lay claim to heaven by right of him? For now, Oh, now will I be thought the son Of old Amphitryon. O deadly pest, Whate'er thou art which in my vitals lurk'st, Come forth. Why with a hidden agony 1250 Dost thou afflict my heart? What Scythian sea Beneath the frozen north, what Tethys slow, What Spanish Calpe nigh the Moorish shore Begot and brought thee forth? O evil dire!