Oh might it be so, thou Daughter of Perseus, Goddess revered!
Oh might he but win home, ’scaping his doom!—but if this be his weird,
By the bulls to be overmastered, or ever it be too late
Might he know it, that I be not forced to exult o’er the thing that I hate!’ {470}
So was the maiden distraught by the cares that racked her mind.
But when those others had left the folk and the city behind,
On the path whereby at the first from the river-plain they had gone,
Even then, and with these words, Argus spake unto Aison’s son:
‘This counsel of mine, O Aison’s son, thou wilt haply despise:
Yet in desperate strait to forbear from the trial seemeth not wise.