But from me—a tyrannous god all happiness reft from me; {1040}
And with alien men do I wander forlorn, an accursèd wight!
Dread ye the covenant-troth and the oaths: the Avenging Sprite
Of the suppliants dread, and the Gods’ retribution, if ever I come
To Aiêtes’ hands, amid outrage and agony meeting my doom!
No temple have I, neither tower of salvation, nor refuge beside:
You cast I before me, mine only shield in the perilous tide.
Hard hearts unrelenting and ruthless!—ye know not reverence, ye,
For the suppliant, though ye behold as I stretch despairingly
Mine hands to the knees of a stranger queen. Yet the Kolchian array,