Would bring to Argos race once native here,
Driving them forth in hate of wedlock's couch?
King. What seek'st thou then of these the Gods of conflicts,
Holding your wool-wreathed branches newly-plucked?
Chor. That I serve not Ægyptos' sons as slave.
King. Speak'st thou of some old feud, or breach of right?
330
Chor. Nay, who'd find fault with master that one loved?
King. Yet thus it is that mortals grow in strength.[[234]]
Chor. True; when men fail, 'tis easy to desert them.