And hear this last request, my father, looking
On thy twin chickens nestling by thy tomb;
Pity the daughter, the male seed protect,
Nor let the name revered of ancient Pelops
Be blotted from the Earth! Thou art not dead,
Though housed in Hades, while thy children live,
For children are as echoes that prolong
Their parents’ fame; the floating cork are they
That buoyant bear the net deep sunk in the sea.
Hear, father—when we weep, we weep for thee,