Old Man, the word is spoken; we must go.
Dionysus.
And seeing ye must, what is it that ye wait?
Cadmus.
Child, we are come into a deadly strait,
All; thou, poor sufferer, and thy sisters twain,
And my sad self. Far off to barbarous men,
A grey-haired wanderer, I must take my road.
And then the oracle, the doom of God,
That I must lead a raging horde far-flown
To prey on Hellas; lead my spouse, mine own
Harmonia, Ares' child, discorporate
And haunting forms, dragon and dragon-mate.
Against the tombs and altar-stones of Greece,
Lance upon lance behind us; and not cease
From toils, like other men, nor dream, nor past
The foam of Acheron find my peace at last.
Agave.
Father! And I must wander far from thee!
Cadmus.
O Child, why wilt thou reach thine arms to me,
As yearns the milk-white swan, when old swans die?
Agave.