None other such man. In her ears evermore the music rung
Of his voice, and the words that in sweetness of honey had dropped from his tongue.
And she trembled for him, lest the bulls or Aiêtes himself might slay
Her beloved, and took up a mourning for him, as though he lay {460}
Dead even now; and adown her cheeks soft-stealing tears
Flowed, of her measureless pity, her burden of haunting fears.
And she mourned, and the low lamentation wailed from her tortured breast:
‘Why, wretch that I am, is this anguish upon me?—or be he the best
Of heroes, who now is to perish, or be he the vilest of all,
Let him go to his doom!—yet O that on him no scathe might fall!