In sore straits bending the knee; for in this my task of fear
Shall I nowise prevail, except I be holpen of thine and thee.
And to thee will I render requital of thanks in the days to be—
As is meet and right for them in a far-away land which dwell— {990}
Making glorious thy name and thy fame, and mine hero-companions shall tell
The story of thy renown, when to Hellas again they have won;
Yea, and the heroes’ wives and mothers, who now make moan
For us, I ween, on the strand as they sit by the sighing brine:
And to scatter in air their bitter affliction is thine—is thine!
Not I were the first—was Theseus not saved from the ordeal grim